Respites Never Last
by Dark Akuma Hunter
Summary: Harry makes a deal with a demon in order to get rid of Voldemort once and for all. Many years down the track, Harry's in America, and a demon he pissed off gets released from Hell. Thanks to the Roadhouse he gets mixed up with the Winchesters, and some people just aren't very good at letting sleeping dogs lie. Semi AU. Slash
1. Possession?

**A/N: Hey everyone, welcome to my newest story. You'll note, as time goes on, pieces that are obviously a little bit AU in the Potterverse, but how else is one supposed to really merge two universes? I hope you enjoy what I come up with.**

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_November 12th 1996:_

Harry froze, staring straight into the pitch black eyes of Dragomir Rustok. Other battles raged around them, but all Harry could focus on was the Death Eater in front of him. But he wasn't a Death Eater, was he? His shirt was sleeveless and his skin was reasonably unblemished; there was no skull marring the pale skin of his forearm. Less than a second ago Dragomir's eyes had been blue, and Harry had certainly been able to see the whites of his eyes, because they were actually white! But there was something so much darker in those black eyes than Dragomir had ever managed to conjure up in their previous confrontations – although confrontation might not have been the best word for it. Until now Harry had never come across Dragomir during any of the skirmishes with Death Eaters. New recruits were hardly an unusual thing, what with the state of the community at the moment, but Dragomir had never shown the slightest inclination to join either side of the war in all the time Harry had known him. In fact, he barely associated with the Wizarding World at all. The man ran a bloody bookstore not far from Privet Drive in Little Whinging!

Harry narrowed his eyes and took half a step back, gathering his magic around him, letting it taste the air. It was a habit he had gotten in to as the war continued to escalate – it was impossible to replicate someone's magical signature, the flavour of their magic, so it allowed him a silent, unobtrusive way to check for imposters. The Mad-Eye Moody/Barty Crouch Junior thing had really set him on edge about how easily people impersonated others in the magical world. When he first met Dragomir in the summer before his fifth year he had been surprised to see that the man even had a magical core. He was a pureblood who had chosen to live as a muggle. Sending out tendrils of his magic he enveloped Dragomir in it. Immediately his magic lashed out, violently, and the black eyes sparkled knowingly, amused. His core was the same, sure, but it was absolutely drenched in the most repulsive thing Harry had ever had the misfortune to come into contact with. It was a thousand, a hundred thousand times fouler than a core controlled by the imperius curse. It was a full-blown possession, but for the life of him Harry couldn't think of what would have that kind of power.

Someone screamed his name, but Harry ignored it, even as a stray spell ruffled his hair. The green light momentarily distracted him, seeing how close to death he had once again found himself, but he couldn't bring himself to look away from the black eyes for long. It was strange, how the _thing_ in Dragomir didn't seem in any way inclined to attack him. In fact, it seemed content to watch Harry struggle to comprehend the situation. Emerald eyes narrowed and Harry frowned, committing the feel that possession gave off to memory. Black eyes wasn't much to go on, but he _would_ find out what was doing it, because it was working for Voldemort and needed to be destroyed, one way or another.

The sounds of battle died away and the pair turned away as one for a quick glance of the battlefield. The Death Eaters were either dead, immobilised through spells or injury, or had disapparated. None of the Order were dead, not that he could tell anyway, but he wasn't entirely sure if he would care either way. Most of the members of the Order he now knew had stood by and watched while he nearly died year after year, and a large majority of them had higher education or training. Wasn't he supposed to save their asses?

'Dragomir' smirked and leaned close, breath tickling the shell of Harry's ear. "See you 'round, meat bag," he whispered, before pulling back and disappearing in the blink of an eye. Harry stood there, confused, but he guessed it wasn't so unbelievable that the possesser could utilise Dragomir's magical core. But 'meat bag'? What the hell was that supposed to mean?!

A hand landing on his shoulder jerked Harry out of his thoughts, and he spun to face them with a glare on his face. Tonks reared back as though burnt, hair fading to brown at the fierce look on the Boy-Who-Lived's face. Somewhat satisfied with the reaction he got Harry let his glare linger for a moment before dropping it with a sigh.

"I'm supposed to take you back to Grimmauld Place..." Tonks offered up hesitantly in explanation for grabbing him. It was absolutely ridiculous that they wouldn't teach him how to apparate. Their excuse was that it was against the law, that he was still too young, but with the ministry quickly falling to the Dark Forces did the trivial laws like apparition age really matter? Others said it was the Trace they were worried about, but Harry had read plenty of books that stated clearly that wandless magic was nigh-on untraceable, unless you used your magic like Harry did to seek out other magical signatures, and it seemed that absolutely no-one else had ever thought to do so. Apparation was possible without a wand, highly possible in fact, but magical folk had become too reliant on using a focus over the years to want to risk it. With all the books he had been scouring since Sirius's death he had learned an awful lot about magic and the way it worked, and it appalled him to realise how truly backwards their society was. It wasn't even just the way they dressed and the lack of technology and knowledge of the modern muggle world, it was the use of magic.

"Fine," Harry responded absently, already wondering what sort of books he should begin with to conduct his research into the black eyed creature. Shrugging, Tonks gripped his forearm tightly and spun on the spot, forcing Harry to momentarily experience the gut-wrenching sensation of being forced through a tube. Apparation via a focus was so much more uncomfortable than the descriptions he had found in an obscure magical text describing natural magic. Harry shook his head distractedly as he righted himself from the awkward landing. It wouldn't do for him to constantly dwell on what he felt were the short-comings of society. If he became too fixated on it he might just let Voldemort take over the Wizarding World, then the rebels and the Dark Forces would kill each other and there would be no-one left to ostracise him when they found out what he wanted to do with his own magic. Not that it was really any of their business, but they would _make_ it their business.

Ignoring Tonks, not really caring about how anxious he was probably making her, he walked up to Number 12 and let himself in. While he had been planning on going straight up to his room, Sirius's old room, he was accosted in the gloomy entranceway by Remus Lupin. The werewolf appeared stressed, or rather, more stressed than usual.

"Harry," he called out softly, as though afraid of startling the teen, "Professor Dumbledore would like to speak with you in the kitchen." Rolling his eyes Harry wiped his dirty hands on the robes the Order insisted he wear on raids before gesturing for Remus to lead the way, despite knowing perfectly well by now where the kitchen was. Remus wrung his hands tiredly before relenting, heading back down to the grimy kitchen.

Headmaster Dumbledore was seated at the head of the table, clad in one of his signature burn-your-eyes-out-bright robes. Harry suppressed a shudder at the sight and stood calmly at the other end of the table, hands hanging by his sides rather than behind his back like some of the no-name Order members hovering around the room.

"Harry, my boy," Harry narrowed his eyes in displeasure at the endearment. Hadn't he made it clear that he no longer appreciated the way the Headmaster treated him? "It pains me to say this," _no it doesn't,_ Harry thought bitterly, "But I think it would be for the best if you didn't accompany the Order on any more raids." Harry froze, fury racing through his veins. How dare they? How _dare_ they?!

"Under what reasoning?" Harry asked blankly, his voice emotionless as he tried to reign in his anger. It wouldn't do to blow up at the Headmaster again, not when he was already so wound up.

"Dear boy, you obviously aren't ready for proper combat yet. Staring down Death Eaters is hardly an efficient way to defeat the enemy." Someone snickered and Harry shot them a furious glare, clenching his fists.

"_Fine!_" Harry spat, spinning on his heel and racing up the rickety staircase, barricading himself in his room. Thanks to some handy spells the Goblins at Gringotts had taught him the room was soon warded to an extent that only either Bill or Dumbledore could break in; Bill because of his own training from the Goblins, and Dumbledore through brute magical force. Hopefully it wouldn't come to that, but as things were Harry didn't plan on going back to Hogwarts any time soon, not when he had so much to do, things that were real world important rather than learning stupid household spells in Charms and Transfiguration. If they thought they could stop him from doing his god-damned _duty_ then they were sadly mistaken.

Belatedly Harry realised he would have to purchase new books for his new research task, which meant he would have to venture out of the house, perhaps to an internet café. Another thing he had learned – it wasn't magic itself that affected electronics, there were specific types of wards that scrambled them. Wards like those at Hogwarts and Grimmauld Place.

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_Two Months Later:_

Ever since that fateful raid Harry had locked himself up in Sirius's old room, only eating food forced upon him by the hyper-active house-elf Dobby, whom he had allowed through the wards on the room, and leaving only to use the bathroom. A week after his self-imposed imprisonment a crate-full of magical texts on mythology and lore turned up at Number 12, which many an Order member attempted to open, but failed as Harry had specifically requested such a pre-emptive measure from the Goblins, which they had been only too happy to comply with. After a lengthy and informative visit with the Goblins during the Summer of Fourth Year before the Weasley's arrived he had read up on Goblin etiquette, something which they hadn't expected, and now a fair number of them truly respected him, hence all the favours.

A month after that a series of packages of rare, obscure and discontinued muggle texts arrived, via Gringotts, with the same protections.

Harry's friends had tried countless times to encourage him to leave the room and come back to school. Hermione, upon learning what it was he was doing – he had felt the need to explain himself to her in the hopes that she, as a rather obsessive studier, would understand - had left frustrated, thought on it for a week, then returned the next weekend with a magically expanding notebook. If he was going to hole himself up and study for the rest of his life then she decided she may as well be supportive, even if it tore her up inside seeing him like that.

Harry, on the other hand, was furious. None of the magical texts had any leads whatsoever as to the mysterious possesser. It would have been _so_ much easier if they creature had been magical in origin. So he had hit the muggle books, but they were barely any better. Black eyes really wasn't much to go on, when he stopped to think about it, but it was important to him that he get to the bottom of it all.

At one point he had been about ready to throw the _Anthology of Nordic spirits_ out the window, and that was an extremely rare book that had cost him a fair bit to acquire. He had to calm himself, reminding himself that just because it wasn't useful in this hunt – and when had he started calling it a hunt? – didn't mean that it wouldn't still be an invaluable resource at some other point in time.

It had gotten to the point where Harry was so fed up with it all that he actually started reading the Old Testament. He'd never been much for religion; as a child it was because of the way his family treated him, and as a teen it was because of his magic. The whole Judeo-Christian thing didn't really look too kindly on magic users after all. It was on a whim really; he had purchased it along with a series of other books on mythology, because he wasn't really sure what other sorts of things would classify as Christian mythology, and decided to read it in order to take a break from the tedious study he had been doing. He certainly hadn't expected to actually find anything in it.

"Hell," Harry mumbled softly as he caressed the book with a finger, "A creature from Hell. Why do I get the feeling that Dragomir was possessed by a Demon? Of course it has to be something I have no idea how to kill, it couldn't just be some lowly vengeful spirit that I could have had exorcised..." It was a stab in the dark really – nowhere had it actually mentioned black eyes as a sign of possession – but Harry had always had the worst luck, and so deep down he knew it had to be a demon.

"Actually, why didn't I think of that earlier?" He wondered, closing the worn copy of the Old Testament and placing it on the desk. From a muggle standpoint, that should have been the very first thing to cross his mind. Demonic possessions were some of the only sorts of possession that muggles knew anything about.

"Damnit!" Harry kicked the desk in frustration, cursing violently when he smacked his toe.

He could not deal with demons.

Not from Grimmauld Place.

Not with magic.

Not without knowledge that he knew he was incapable of getting where he was.

He would have to go and seek out the professionals.


	2. Father Anderson

**A/N: Hey :) Before you get down to the uber-long never-to-be-repeated nitty gritty a/n down the bottom I just wanted to say thanks to everyone who has been reading this so far; this story has had an amazing response, the best that anything I've written has ever received, so truly, thank you everyone.**

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**Chapter 2 – Father Anderson:**

_Two Weeks Later, Surrey:_

Harry stood in the park across the road from the church, contemplating his next move. It had taken a lot of effort to get out from under the noses of the Order of the bloody Phoenix. He swore some of them were waiting for him to die up there in his room. This was the second day in a row he had sneaked away with the aid of Dobby. Yesterday he had gone on a shopping trip in order to replace all of the clothes he owned with things that actually fit – most of them were muggle. Today, he was outside a church in the outskirts of Surrey.

He remembered that, as a much younger child, he had once stumbled across this particular church after being 'temporarily' abandoned again by the Dursleys. He had sought shelter inside, not sure what to expect, having never been inside a church before. There was a priest whom he had encountered who, now that he thought back on it, exuded a bright aura, an overly bright aura for a muggle, and there was a deeper knowledge in his eyes. Harry figured that this priest was his best bet at finding answers for his demon problem, but he hadn't yet been able to bring himself to cross the street. A part of him felt ashamed, embarrassed even, about the circumstances under which he had originally met with the young man. He wasn't sure what he preferred; for the priest to not remember him, or to find that he did.

To be honest, Harry felt silly. He had been standing in the park, hidden in the shade of a large tree, for over an hour. People walking down the street gave him strange looks, and he knew it was because of his loitering, as he was wearing very normal, well-fitting clothes.

Taking a deep breath, Harry straightened the hem of his button-up shirt and stepped out into the sunlight. Despite part of his mind begging him to turn away he crossed the street, albeit slowly and hesitantly, until he stood before the church. It seemed a lot smaller this time around, but he supposed that was to be expected seeing as he wasn't that small any more. Steeling himself, he pushed open one of the doors and slipped inside.

The place was empty of any church-goers, which he had expected, seeing as it was lunchtime on a Wednesday. A very young man, not much older than himself, Harry estimated, was sweeping around the altar. Feeling slightly awkward Harry cleared his throat, announcing his presence to the man. Immediately he paused, glancing over his shoulder towards the door and Harry, before setting the broom to one side and heading over with a warm smile on his face.

"Good afternoon, is there something I can help you with?" He asked, brushing a hand through sandy blond hair as he tilted his head slightly, observing Harry. Harry shifted his weight on his feet and clasped the strap of his bag tightly in one hand.

"Um, yes. Is, uh... Is Eric Anderson here?" Harry nervously tugged his fringe down over his forehead. Despite being in a muggle area it always paid to stay alert, you never knew who might know about their world.

"Father Anderson?" Harry nodded, not having the slightest clue what title the man might hold. "Yes, he is in his office out the back. Would you like me to take you there?"

"Ah, yes please, thank you." Harry silently cursed himself as he tripped over his words. His nerves were going haywire. This was his best chance, but what if it ended up being a dead-end? Where would he go from there? He had it on good authority that there might just be a few demons over in America, and people to deal with them, but how would that help? He couldn't exactly jump ship and head on over there, not when there was a war to be fought.

"Father," Harry jerked slightly at the sound of the young priest's voice, having been following the man on autopilot without really taking in his surroundings. "There's someone here to speak with you."

"Send them in." Yep, Harry knew that voice. Good to know he hadn't made an awkward stuff-up and found someone else who just so happened to have the same name in the same church... Okay, so he knew he was being a tad dramatic, but the fear had been there all the same. The priest – it would be so much easier if he knew the man's name, less awkward in his mind – nodded politely and gave him another bright smile before heading back the way they had come, probably to return to his cleaning. Scuffing his feet on the floor Harry shook his head and stepped inside the office, closing the door softly behind him.

Inside, seated at the single desk, sat a middle-aged man with reddish-brown close cut hair, a book held limply in his hand. Obviously the man hadn't exactly been expecting any visitors. Harry drew himself out of his slouch and stared at the wall behind Eric in order to avoid looking straight into those piercing eyes of his that, when Harry was younger, he swore could see into his soul.

"Well then young man, what can I do for you?" Father Anderson asked lightly, trying and failing to catch Harry's eye.

"I doubt you remember me," Harry began softly, eyes glazing over slightly as he remembered that day, "We met once, quite a few years ago. My name is Harry Potter and-"

Father Anderson's face lit up in recognition and he cut in anxiously. "Your Uncle, he hasn't been going around abandoning you in strange places again has he?" Harry stiffened, eyes cold, as he instinctively shut himself off. Whenever his life at the Dursleys was brought up he would close himself off, for he was ashamed of the way his life had gone and did not like other people knowing about it. It was hard enough remembering that Father Anderson already _did_ know about it.

"That is neither here nor there Father, at 16 he really doesn't benefit any from trying such petty things." _Now that I'm getting training for my magic he's terrified in a whole different way to when he was trying to get rid of me. Now he can't risk it, not with all the death threats he's received from various magical folk._ "I'm in trouble, and I think you can help me." Harry took a deep breath and forced himself to meet Eric's eyes, letting down his barriers and allowing the priest to see the echoes of the horrors he had bore witness to.

A disbelieving gasp ripped from Eric's lips before he steeled himself, face morphing into a much more serious expression than what he had previously shown. He nodded his head once and gestured for Harry to take a seat. They needed to have a long talk about a lot of things, but the Father wasn't naïve enough to believe that he would be told about any of the things that had been the causes of the pain and suffering in those hard emerald eyes.

"I would ask if you had been caught stealing or something, but I can tell that it's something much different than petty crime. How do you think I can help?" Father Anderson placed his book on the edge of his desk and leaned back in his chair, unwilling to lean forward and crowd the obviously nervous teen before him. Harry breathed out heavily and opened his shoulder bag, pulling out two notebooks. One was the magically expanding notebook from Hermione – that was where he kept important notes about anything and everything he had come across during his search for answers – and a smaller, muggle notebook, which was filled with drawings and notes regarding Dragomir and demons. HE held them carefully in his lap, staring down at the worn covers.

"First thing's first, have you seen the owner of _Broken Pieces_, Dragomir Rustok, lately?" Harry could tell the man was confused. After all, what relevance to his problems could the owner of a cosy second-hand bookstore possibly have? Despite the obvious confusion Harry chose not to elaborate, sitting silently and waiting for an answer.

"No, I can't say I have. Actually, now that you mention it, he used to come to the church once a week without fail – not for mass, I don't think he was really all that comfortable around large groups of people, but he came all the same – but he hasn't been in months. Why, has something happened to him?" Eric rubbed the back of his hand over his mouth in thought. What could this kid – a kid who had, for all intents and purposes, disappeared off the face of the planet – know about Dragomir that no-one else did?

"That doesn't really surprise me." Harry admitted, fingering the cover of his muggle notebook. "I, ah, ran into him-" Eric could sense a complex story behind that statement, but pushed that thought to the side for the time being, "- just shy of three months ago. He was certainly not acting like himself." Harry had wondered for a long time how to go about describing the differences without bringing magic into the picture, and had decided on simply using the book and answering other questions. "Dragomir was acting rather malicious, but that isn't the part that worried me. Everyone has bad days, some worse so than others. It was his eyes that set off alarm bells. His eyes were black. Completely so." Shifting in his seat Harry placed his notebook on the desk and pushed it towards Father Anderson. There was a hard look in the Father's eyes, and Harry knew that he knew at least some of what he was talking about without even reading the notebook, but he picked it up and flicked through it anyway.

Harry watched nervously, biting his bottom lip, as Eric read through his muddled conspiracies and thoughts. They weren't organised in the slightest, but that didn't seem to matter, as the man appeared to be absorbing everything that was written with a contemplative expression that refused to disappear.

"Demons..." Eric sighed, dragging his hand across the stubble that littered his chin. Harry immediately straightened in his seat and watched as he hung his head and buried his face in his hands. "I'd heard whispers, from the States, about things like this. No-one ever said demon, but I can't really find any reason not to believe you. You're a good person Harry, I can sense it, and whatever... crap... you've been through, and I know you've seen a lot of bad, I don't reckon you'd go around accusing people of this sort of thing without any level of certainty." He looked through his fingers at Harry, taking in his tense posture.

"I understand if you don't want to help me," Harry whispered softly, finger running up and down the spine of his journal.

"I didn't say that," Eric denied, shaking his head. Taking a breath to centre himself he pushed himself up straight and began rummaging around in one of the draws behind his desk. "That said, I don't know anything practical about demons, so I doubt I will be of all that much help, but I will try." Making a small noise of triumph he sat up again, an old, dusty book clenched carefully in his hands. "This is a book of exorcisms that I stumbled across when cleaning out the basement of the church. I have no idea how long it had been down there for, but for some reason I didn't feel like throwing it away, so instead I locked it up in my office. Now, if you exorcise the demon from Dragomir's body, do you think he would still be alive?"

Harry frowned thoughtfully, brow creased. He himself had been possessed briefly by Voldemort, and the pain had been agonising. Even if the possession was different, Harry didn't like to imagine what sort of damage three months of that would wreak on Dragomir's mental state. Even if it was painless, he would have spent months watching, helpless, as his body was used to kill, maim and torture – because demons love that sort of thing and working for Voldemort was really just looking like an excuse to Harry right about now – and from his visions alone Harry knew that that was never a pleasant thing to go through.

"I have absolutely no idea whether or not his body would still be properly alive, but I doubt he would want to be alive," Harry tugged on a strand of his hair. He wasn't explaining himself very well. "That demon is doing a ton of evil crap with Dragomir's body. It won't be easy to cope with the knowledge that he essentially murdered a whole pile of mug-ah-people," Harry coughed nervously, hoping that Eric didn't mention his slip of the tongue. The clergyman's eyes narrowed thoughtfully for a moment but he remained silent, opting instead to flip through the exorcism book.

Father Anderson stopped almost halfway through the book and carefully turned it around, holding it out to Harry.

"This is the exorcism I feel would be of the most use to you. You might like to copy it out." Reaching into his bag Harry pulled out a ball-point pen – quills were really far too much trouble to bother with – and shuffled his chair closer to the desk, opening his supernatural journal and positioning it next to the ancient text. The exorcism was ridiculously long, a good five pages! Harry could only hope that he would never be in a position where he would have to read out the entire thing. It was just lucky that he had such a good grip on Latin pronunciation from all his spellwork, otherwise he knew he would muck it up horrendously.

Harry was still skeptical though. Sure, an exorcism was all well and good, but what was to stop the demon from turning tail and running once it realised what he was doing? Not to mention he would be terrifyingly vulnerable while chanting...

"I'm not really sure what else I can do to help..." Eric admitted, sitting back in his chair as Harry finished up the exorcism. Harry glanced up at him and sent him what he hoped was a reassuring smile.

"It's fine, really. You've actually helped me a lot simply by believing me. There's a lot of crazy stuff in my life, but I get the feeling my friends wouldn't have believed me about this. They would have said it was the stress getting to me and then beg me to go back to school with them." Harry froze up when he realised what he had said. What was he doing going around telling priests that he was ditching school to study the occult!?

Abruptly Harry shot to his feet, knocking his chair over in the process, and starting hastily shoving his things back into his bag. He couldn't stay any longer, he had said too much as it was, and he needed to get back to Grimmauld Place before anyone noticed he was missing.

"Harry, wait a moment!" Eric called, fumbling in the cupboard behind his desk hurriedly as he watched Harry from the corner of his eye. As soon as his hand wrapped around what he was looking for he spun and threw it to Harry. Only Harry's honed seeker reflexes allowed him to catch the vial, even as he spun in startled shock towards Father Anderson.

"I don't... What?"

Eric smiled weakly. "It's Holy Water. I'm not sure what use it will be, but it doesn't hurt to try."

Emerald eyes blinked slowly at him from behind round glasses. Harry looked between Eric and the vial, before pocketing it with a nod and offering a tentative thanks in return.

Harry left the church that day with a renewed determination. He would destroy that creature no matter what it took. No demon would get the best of the boy who was supposed to save the world.

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**Welcome to the longest author's note I will ever write. Probably. There's a whole bunch of things I feel I have to say here, so just bare with me.**

**Firstly, I'm agnostic, and henceforth know jack-squat about any and all religions. Accordingly, I'm going to attempt to avoid writing about that sort of thing, but if I do and something is incorrect or it offends you in any way, just know that that's not what I intended when I wrote it. I want people to enjoy my writing, not be offended by it.**

**Secondly, for now updates will be every Tuesday. Once I finish writing up all of the chapters I'll start updating multiple times a week.**

**Thirdly, for those of you who have been on my profile, this is not the story the poll I have running is about. That's a very different story, one that I am currently struggling to get past the second chapter in.**

**Lastly, as of right now I'm not sure where Harry is going to end up living in the States. That being said, if you have a favourite case in the 1st or 2nd season that you reckon would be heaps better if Harry intervened in, hit me up about it and I'll pick from there.**

**If you've read all the way through this, thanks for listening, and I welcome your ideas and opinions.**


	3. Rituale Romanum

**A/N: Just... Wow. Holy Hades. Umm, I'd just like to say, firstly, that I dearly love each and every single person who has read this story so far, and of course, especially those who have favourited it or are following it. It means the world to me. Secondly, I copied the Rituale Romanum from John Winchester's Journal, so no growling about bad latin, if that happens to be the case.**

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**Chapter 3 – Rituale Romanum:**

It was many more months before Harry felt prepared enough to confront the demon inside of Dragomir once more.

His personal library now had a rather extensive collection of books relating to demons. Surprisingly, or perhaps not so, considering what he now knew about the man, Snape aided him in acquiring some of the rarer and more valuable tombs. The Professor had barged into his room one evening while Harry was in the bathroom, taken one look at what he was doing, and offered his assistance. Apparently Harry wasn't the only person that demon had pissed off.

Harry was as prepared as he believed he would ever be. After spending an entire month practising how to draw a Devil's Trap – an incredibly useful array he stumbled across in one of the more obscure religious texts – he was certain he could probably draw it in his sleep, not that he could envision any such reason to do so.

Drawing on his semi-proficiency in wandless magic Harry had made the precious vial of Holy Water from Father Anderson unbreakable, and he had charmed the stopper to only allow him to open it by reacting to his unique magical signature.

He also had a knife, a silver knife, which he had acquired from a shady weapon shop in Knocturn Alley while shopping under a complex glamour. It was covered in runes that he didn't understand – they weren't covered in the ancient runes textbook he found lying around the Black Family Library and he couldn't be bothered spending too much time attempting to translate them – and had been blessed by the twitchiest reverend he had ever met. He hadn't felt right trying to make Eric do it for him, so he hunted down the next best holy man, according to his magic anyway.

It was almost terrifying, the strange truce he and Snape had fallen into. In any other situation it might almost be considered comradeship, but Harry knew better than that. What did shock him, however, was when Snape burst into his room one evening – he had long since altered the wards to allow the man inside since he was helping with his research – and demanded to be allowed to accompany him when he finally made his move.

To be honest, Harry still hadn't responded to his request, and he was in the process of setting the scene for their confrontation. Whether through some sort of morbid irony or simply a want to be in a familiar space Harry had chosen Dragomir's bookstore for their battlefield. The back room, not the store-front – Harry didn't _really_ want all of those books to get destroyed if it could possibly be avoided.

Devil's Traps were scattered everywhere he could think of, on the walls, ceiling and floor. Most of them were hidden, some with magic to hide from the eyes of others that weren't Harry, but several were open to the naked eye. They weren't in highly obvious places, but it would be better for the demon to see one in front of the window and side-step it, getting trapped by the larger ones on the ceiling, than it would be for him to see a small piece of one poking out from under the rug and get instantly suspicious. Harry imagined the demon wouldn't be expecting that sort of thing from him, seeing that on the whole magical people, despite the obvious existence of other 'mythical' creatures, were even more adamant that demons didn't exist than muggles were.

Getting out of Grimmauld Place without Snape noticing turned out to be the hardest part of the whole showdown. The bitter spy had added his own wards to Harry's bedroom, ones that told him when he left and how many people were in the room. There were also anti-apparation wards. Snape may not have truly believed Harry was capable of apparating, but that didn't stop him taking precautions just in case. Under-estimating the enemy – or in this case the stubborn brat he was trying to protect – was never a good idea.

Thankfully, after multiple cases of trial and error, Harry discovered that Snape, like so many other wizards, had overlooked the wonderful magic in the possession of house-elves. Dobby was truly an invaluable asset to the mission, and Harry made a mental note to give the hyper-active elf a few of his odd socks on their return, provided he lived to tell the tale. The stories of demons weren't exactly reassuring, and he wasn't 100% certain that the Devil's Trap would even work.

In an attempt to delay, or even prevent, Snape coming after him, Harry, with the aid of Dobby, created a magical replica of himself. Harry infused the golem with some of his own magic, just enough so that it could send signals to Snape's magic telling it that Harry was still in the room, and crafted it so that it looked fairly like him, at least from behind. It would serve its purpose for if anyone managed to get inside to check on where he was, as long as they didn't expect it to talk back. It would be a long time before he managed to perform voice-response magic.

"Alright then," Harry whispered to himself, dusting his hands on his jeans and checking his pocket for the exorcism. "Come on Dobby, take me to _Broken Pieces_." The small elf grabbed Harry's hand and with an almost-silent pop they disappeared from Number 12.

_Broken Pieces_ was a quaint little shop, filled with rare and unusual second-hand books, along with a few other miscellaneous items. Harry knew the place like the back of his hand with all the time he spent there during the holidays. In a way Harry felt immensely guilty for what had happened to Dragomir. Somehow or another a Death Eater must have witnessed them interacting and decided that this would be a wonderful way to get back at him. Dragomir was a Bulgarian pureblood, with no real reason to join Voldemort, so he should have been left in peace. It was Harry's fault they had even realised the poor man was magical.

"Is yous okay Mister Harry Potter sir?" Dobby's voice broke Harry free from his morbid thoughts. Perhaps this wasn't the best place he could have picked for their showdown. Too many memories.

"Yeah, Dobby, I'm fine. You should go back now. Keep an eye on Snape for me." Dobby nodded furiously and in the blink of an eye was gone once more. Harry exhaled slowly and shoved his hand into his pocket, curling his fingers around the knife. The knife was mostly for show, he doubted it was actually capable of injuring the demon, but it made him feel better all the same.

"Okay, what now?"

Harry took to pacing back and forth across the back of the store, clutching Dragomir's key-ring to his chest, trying to summon the demon with his will. It might have seemed like a ridiculous thing to do, but long-range legilimency was hardly a far-fetched notion. He was, however, working on borrowed time. Snape could show up at any moment. Harry wasn't worried about any other members of the Order. They had stopped caring about what he did months ago, shortly after he stopped leaving his room. Apparently he was only worth their concern when he was following orders and attending school. He was learning a lot more by himself than he would have been at school, about both magical and mundane subjects.

Scowling heavily Harry raised his face to the ceiling. "Get your arse in here right now you bloody piece of demonic shit!" He yelled, fisting the keys in one hand and the knife in the other.

A door slammed open and Harry spun, knife raised, in absolute shock. He hadn't actually expected that to work, he had just been getting frustrated. But there he was, black eyes glistening maliciously. The demon had a swagger to his step as he approached Harry that Dragomir had never possessed. Demons, Harry thought to himself, were even more arrogant than pureblood supremacists.

"Well well well," the demon called mockingly, bringing his hands together in a slow clap as he walked, "Little Harry Potter and his magic knife. What are you going to do, poke me?" He began to laugh, but quickly stopped when he realised he could no longer move. Harry let out a breath of relief. The Devil's Trap had worked after all. Never again would he doubt his books.

"What have you done to me?" The demon snarled, eyes smouldering with hatred.

Narrowing his eyes at the demon Harry removed the vial from his pocket and slowly uncorked it, dangling it in the air before him. Black eyes locked onto it and widened slightly before narrowing once more.

"This is your end, demon. You should never have come here." Taking a deep breath Harry threw the Holy Water over the demon. It screamed, an awful, ear-splitting sound. Harry dropped the vial, clamping his hands over his ears and shutting his eyes. That wasn't a sound he wanted to hear again, but it at least proved the usefulness of the Holy Water.

Once the screaming receded to harsh pants Harry lowered his hands and pulled out several sheets of paper, holding them with shaking fingers.

"Deus, et pater Domini nostri Jesu Christi, invoco nomen sanctum tuum, et clementiam tuam supplex exposco..." Harry began chanting the exorcism, quietly at first, but his voice gained strength as he continued and as the demon started reacting to it. He was on the third verse and his throat was beginning to feel strained from overuse – he really hadn't spoken much in the last few months – when the demon let out one last shriek before exploding into a cloud of black smoke. Swallowing nervously Harry abandoned the exorcism and threw his knife into the hovering cloud of smoke, forcing it to disperse.

Dragomir's body hit the floor with a dull thud and, once the demon smoke was gone, Harry rushed into the circle and put a hand on his neck, checking for a pulse. There was nothing.

Choking back an anguished sob Harry lay Dragomir's body down flat on the ground and ran to the phone in his office. It took every ounce of willpower Harry had not to break down and start crying, but he knew he needed to do this. Carefully dialling, making sure he got the number right as he hadn't ever needed to use it before, he rang the police.

"Hello, what seems to be the problem?" Harry closed his eyes and fisted his hand in his shirt.

"There's a, ah... dead body," Harry choked on the word, and had to clear his throat before continuing.

"Where are you?" The calm voice on the other end asked.

"Bookstore. _Broken Pieces_. It's in Surrey, near Magnolia Crescent."

"Someone will be there as soon as possible."

Before they could tell him to wait on the phone Harry hung up and called out for Dobby, trying to keep the anguish from his voice. Judging by the look Dobby sent him when he arrived Harry wasn't doing a very good job at concealing his emotions, so he simply took Dobby's hand with trembling fingers and held on tight.

That night Harry fell into a restless sleep plagued with nightmares, and when he awoke, spent the rest of the night crying quietly to himself about the sacrifices made by all of the people around him for the sake of a mad-man's war.

He vowed to himself then and there, with blood-shot eyes and tear-stained cheeks, that he would kill Voldemort, not to fulfil a prophecy, but to avenge the lives of people like Dragomir, who should never have been caught up in the war.

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**A/N: You guys are brilliant, really. It might interest some of you to know that I have 3 other stories in varying states of completion on my usb for this particular fandom, although the one-shot it probably the only one you've got a chance of seeing any time soon.**

**I'll see you next week, same time, same place.**


	4. Crowley

**A/N: Hey everyone :) You lot are getting this chapter a day early, because my dad is threatening to drag me to my little sister's stage challenge performance tomorrow and I'm not sure how much time I'll have after school for updating. Also, asking for quicker updates isn't going to get you anywhere. I have a schedule, and it will only be broken when I've finished writing all the chapters. Cheers.**

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**Chapter 4 – Crowley:**

By the 4th of February 1998 Harry Potter had had more than enough of the war. He was supposed to be their saviour, yet no-one was letting him in on any important details and, more to the point, he _knew_ Dumbledore was keeping something from him, and from previous experience it was only vital pieces of information that the old man hid away.

Vital pieces of information like the fact that there was a bloody PROPHECY about him. Didn't he deserve to know things like that? It was his life to live, dammit, and they weren't letting him!

If Sirius were still alive he would be fighting for Harry's right to be in the loop. It was one of the things he missed the most about the man, not having had the time to find much else to miss. That was Dumbledore's fault too, Sirius's death. Originally he had blamed Snape, but in the end it was the Headmaster who had had the stupid belief that the two would get along well enough to teach and learn such a complex art.

But no, after months upon months of consequent grieving and trying to wheedle information out of any Order member he could find, Harry had given up. Not on fighting the war, no, but on relying on the Order of the bloody Phoenix for absolutely anything at all.

Today, today Harry had once again sneaked away from Grimmauld Place, but this time there was no-one around to care.

Harry walked briskly towards the crossroads, a small box clasped tightly in his hands. It had taken a good week's research to find a dirt crossroad that wasn't too far from London, most all of them were paved over now. It hadn't been a hard decision to make, once he found out about Crossroads Demons. Forfeiting his own life was such a small price to pay for vengeance. Oh, he wasn't naïve enough to believe that such criminality would cease with Voldemort's demise, but he wasn't trying for world peace, he only wanted vengeance for those killed by the regime of the current Dark Lord.

Admittedly, it was the ingredients for the summoning that had taken the longest to organise. Harry was still a bit queasy about the whole cat bone thing - odd, since he'd used weirder in potions - but demons were demons, so he figured he could deal with it just this once.

Kneeling down in the centre of the crossroads Harry formed a hole with magic in which to place the box – he was, after all, seventeen now, and he had to use his magic for _something_. He wasn't entirely sure as to what was meant to happen, having only had one experience with any sort of demon before. Shaking his head he climbed to his feet, deciding there was no reason to remain on his knees in the dirt while he waited.

The wait that ensued was silent and felt like an absurdly long time to the young wizard. He entwined his fingers behind his back and rocked on the balls of his feet, wand shoved into the pocket of his jeans.

"Well, this is certainly an interesting development," an Irish voice spoke lightly from behind him. Harry spun around to find himself face to face with a man in a crisp black suit. It wasn't exactly what he had been expecting, but without much of an imagination to draw on his expectations had been pretty non-existent anyway.

"Who are you?" Harry demanded, just to be sure that it was indeed who he thought it was. The man chuckled, and while it was a warm enough, friendly enough sound, it set Harry on edge. _Yeah, that sounds like a demon_.

"I'm the answer to your prayers, luv," Harry rolled his eyes at the demon. Prayers, right. More like the darkest desires of his soul. "So what can I do for you this fine night, aye? Money, love, talent?"

"I don't want anything trivial like that. What I need is help." Harry drew himself up to his full, not-very-impressive height and looked straight into the demon's eyes. "What do you know of magic? Real magic, not the sort your demon buddies offer up."

"Magic-users aye? Down in Hell that's just a myth."

"Really?" Harry paused, digesting that little piece of information. Apparently the magical world really _was_ secluded from the rest of the world. "Well, if it makes you feel any better, demons are even less than myth where I come from. It was bloody hard, in the beginning, trying to get anywhere with that sort of research." He wasn't sure if he was trying, for some strange reason, to reassure the demon, or if he was just participating in an exchange of information.

"Well now, I'm going to have to look into that. I'm missing out on a whole species of possible customers..." Harry bristled, eyes narrowing behind his glasses. He wasn't sure he liked being referred to as a whole other species.

"That's not why I called you here demon."

"Crowley. The name's Crowley, luv. You mentioned help. What sort of help you looking for?" Crowley dragged his gaze up and down Harry's malnourished form, hands in the pockets of his suit-jacket as he watched the young wizard squirm.

"I need your help to kill a wizard known as Voldemort. His birth name is Tom Marvolo Riddle. I wouldn't ask, but I can tell there's something off about him, or he would have died a long time ago," Harry trailed off some at the end, still trying to mull it over for himself as to how the dark wizard managed to stave off death so easily.

"Kill a wizard aye? I get the feeling I'm going to have to do some research into this, aren't I." Crowley shook his head, attempting a put-upon expression that was ruined by his relaxed stance. In all honesty, he was intrigued. Either way he'd be getting some solid information that none of the other demons had access to.

"There's a man, Albus Dumbledore," it was pretty hard to miss the malice in Harry's voice when he spat the name, "I'm pretty sure he knows a lot about what's going on, but he refuses to let me in on the secret."

"Okay, so let me get this straight. Basically, you want me to help you obtain the means to kill this Voldemort person?" At Harry's nod he continued, "Well, standard procedure and all that puts the price for any sort of deal at your soul in 10 years, but I get the feeling you already knew that." Harry's silence seemed to speak volumes to Crowley, because he nodded to himself and started walking around the teen as he spoke. "However, I can't shake the niggling feeling the back of my mind that everything's going to go to Hell, excuse the pun, and you could turn out to be a rather important asset, young mister wizard." Crowley tapped his finger on his chin as he pondered something that only he could understand.

Now even a child would know that having a demon take an interest in you was a very bad thing; Harry was no exception. The difference between Harry and everyone else however, was that he knew very well that all sorts of crap could amount from this, but he didn't care. Whatever Crowley wanted he knew he would agree to it, without question, because he was 100% committed to destroying the Dark Lord whom murdered his parents and friends. There would be no stopping his revenge.

"Well? Are we making a deal or not?" Harry demanded, worrying his bottom lip between his teeth. If _Crowley_ backed out, there was nothing he could do. He would have to make do on his own, but he didn't want that. He knew it would be damn near impossible to get anything out of Dumbledore by himself, because he had absolutely no aptitude for the mind arts, and because the Headmaster was firmly seated in his belief that Harry didn't need to know the gritty details until the very last moment – to preserve his childhood or some cock-and-bull story like that.

"Yes yes, calm down luv. I was just thinking that it'd be such a shame to see you killed for this. You're a proverbial fountain of untapped knowledge, you know that?" Crowley's dark eyes sparkled with amusement as he watched Harry tense, and noted where his hand hovered near the back pocket of his jeans.

"So... what then? You want my memories? Is that it?"

Harry desperately needed Crowley to stop playing games. An alarm was ringing in the back of his mind. Someone was in his room. Had he remembered to put the map away before he left? He couldn't remember...

"No, something more substantial than that. I think... Yes, that's good. Kiddo, I want your magic." That certainly wasn't what Harry'd been expecting. Give up his magic? Would Crowley want it in 10 years like usual, or would he want it sooner? In actuality, it was magic that had caused all of the major issues in his life, so being without it almost felt like a saving grace. Surely Crowley didn't intend for it to be so, demons aren't exactly selfless, but it was a surprisingly good deal.

"Deal. When?"

"What?" Harry could have laughed at the shocked look on the demon's face if the situation weren't so serious. Someone could stumble across them at any moment, depending on what he had done with the mess of research that was his room.

"When, as in, how long do I have until you'll be wanting my magic?"

There was a lengthy pause, Crowley presumably attempting to work out why Harry seemed to eager to agree to what Crowley would have thought of as a rather hefty price. Then again, from what Harry had gleamed from stories, most people who made deals didn't even _know_ the price when they made their deals.

"A year," Crowley eventually decided, "Once you defeat this Voldemort person, you can keep your magic for up to one year. Of course, if at any point during that year you feel like giving it up early, just give me a shout and I'll come running." Harry couldn't help but roll his eyes at that, while on the inside he was actually a bit shocked. That was longer than he was expecting. One part of him had almost been expecting Crowley to demand payment up-front, what with the way his eyes seemed to light up when he named the price. He didn't even want to know why Crowley wanted his magic. He'd sleep better at night that way.

"Alright, good, deal."

That, unfortunately, was as far as Harry's knowledge on demon deals went. He had no idea how demons went about 'sealing the deal', although his imagination was trying to tell him it was going to be horrific and painful. He certainly hoped not. It wouldn't do him any good to show up back at Grimmauld twitching as though he had just been under the cruciatus. They'd never let him out of the house again!

Crowley smirked, sensing his discomfort, and stepped closer.

And closer.

And closer.

Until he was right in front of Harry.

Crowley wasn't the tallest person Harry had ever met, but he still had to tilt his head back in order to meet the demon's eyes now that they were so close together. In any other situation Harry might have been fuming about the height difference, but everything in him was screaming for him to flee, and it was taking just about all of her willpower _not_ to turn tail and run.

Crowley rested a hand on the back of Harry's neck and, distractedly, part of Harry was surprised that the hand was warm. Before he knew what was happening a pair of lips had covered his own.

_Typical,_ Harry found himself thinking, _my first kiss stolen by a demon._ He should have hated it, pushed Crowley away. For the love of Merlin, it was a _demon!_ But he stood his ground and allowed it to happen, closing his eyes.

Harry pulled away with a gasp when Crowley's thumb dug into his neck, burning him. Scowling, with a glare stolen from the best, Harry gingerly rubbed the side of his neck, resisting the urge to lick his lips. He'd only ever been kissed once before, after all, and he didn't like to count that.

"_What did you do to me?!_" Harry hissed, his words barely English in his anger. Of course, his anger only served to amuse Crowley, who had taken several steps back to stand on top of where Harry had buried his summoning box.

"Nothing bad," Crowley placated, attempting to sound reassuring but only managing to sound vaguely amused instead. When he didn't offer any further explanation Harry spun on his heel, kicking up a cloud of dirt, and apparated to the corner of Grimmauld Place.

Not making any attempt to be subtle, Harry stormed down the street and into Number 12. The moment the front door slammed shut the voices from the kitchen ceased, but Harry wasn't interested in them. Running up the stairs he locked himself in the first bathroom he came across and stared into the mirror.

There, in black, burned into the side of his neck, was the symbol of the crossroads.

"Shit."


	5. Horcruxes

**A/N: Good afternoon my loyal followers. Are you excited for the next chapter? I'm bloody not! There's over a hundred of you! _Where did you all come from?_ It's like being in the media spotlight, every word I write being scrutinised emasse. I mean, I'm not complaining, not really, it's just, _terrifying_, you know?**

**Also, I do know that Crowley isn't Irish. I'm not entirely sure why I wrote that he was. Perhaps I just subconsciously wish he _was_ Irish, because wouldn't that be cool? I can't be bothered changing it, hence the note.**

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**Chapter 5 – Horcruxes:**

Every day Harry woke up wondering if it would be the day Crowley got back to him. Despite his initial moping around he did put the time to good use – well, good from his perspective, no-one else would understand his motivation.

Every morning Harry went for a walk and bought a copy of the muggle newspaper from the nearest store. Knowing what the masses were up to was generally a good idea, not that the rest of the magical folk seemed to realise that. As he furthered his own muggle education he developed a rather pessimistic thought pattern. At least once a day there would be some little thing or another that set him off thinking about how _ignorant_ and _naïve_ wizards were.

Once he was up-to-date with the world Harry believed he would actually feel more at home amongst the mundane people than he did in the magical community. Regular people coped just fine without magic, in fact, Harry liked to believe that they coped even better, because the lack of magic meant that in order to achieve things they had to create new technologies. Compared to everything the muggles had created and achieved the magical community was still stuck in the dark ages, and that wasn't a good thing.

* * *

Six weeks passed like that, interrupted only by random visits by Headmaster Dumbledore. Each time he visited Harry attempted to talk with him, and every single time he was brushed aside. The war was growing larger and larger as time went on, and Harry was about ready to strangle someone! Did they want him to stop Voldemort or not?

He was beginning to get the feeling that people _expected_ him to die in the 'final confrontation', so they weren't bothering to let him in on any of their plans. It was the only reason he could come up with to explain his wilful and purposeful exclusion.

* * *

It wasn't until the dawn of the seventh week that Harry heard anything from Crowley. He was sitting on the front lawn of Number 12 reading a book, hidden from view from the muggles and wizards alike, because none of the windows that looked out onto the street were clean enough to really see through. The burning in his neck was all the warning he got before the well-dressed demon appeared beside him.

"Bloody hell!" Harry cursed, dropping his book in his lap as he twisted around to get a better view of Crowley.

"A surprisingly apt, if not vague, description coming from someone who has never been."

Completely stumped Harry gazed open-mouthed in shock at the mysterious demon before him. Had Crowley just made a joke? Did demons joke? Trying to make plain logic out of the whole situation was only succeeding in making Harry's brain hurt. It was safer to simply assume that demons could act as human as they pleased. But really, making jokes about hell? How crude.

Wait a minute...

"Hang on, hell's real?" The question forced its way through Harry's self-censoring filters and bubbled past his lips before he had a chance to think about how ridiculous it sounded.

"Of course it is," Crowley replied, thoroughly amused, as he swung his arm forward and dropped a bag into Harry's lap. Letting out a surprised whoosh of air as the bag hit his stomach Harry stared curiously up at Crowley before turning his gaze to the bag. Reaching out with his magic Harry suddenly found himself feeling rather violently ill, so he shoved the bag away with as much force as he could muster.

The smirk which had adorned Crowley's face wavered at his reaction before morphing into a more neutral expression. Taking elegant steps the demon recollected the bag and held it between two fingers by the drawstrings.

"What the _hell_ is inside that?" Harry asked, voice shaky. In an attempt to remain as far away as possible from the volatile contents of Crowley's bag Harry drew all of his magic into the centre of his being. It made him feel detached from the world, sealing off his magical senses like that, but he would deal with it for as long as he was in the same vicinity as those vile items.

"Believe it or not, I find these things just as repulsive as you do luv," Crowley informed the young wizard, opening the bag and revealing an odd assortment of items. Once he had shown the contents to Harry he pulled the drawstrings shut again and dropped the bag on the ground so he didn't have to keep touching it.

"Alright, I get that they're disgusting, but what _are _they?"

"Those right there are fragments of your Voldemort's soul. Frightful things indeed, those. Even jolly old Lucifer wouldn't wish to rip his soul to shreds, and before you ask, yes, he does have a soul. Sort of."

"Ever since I found out about the existence of demons I guess I always figured that Tom would get along pretty well with them, but I get the feeling you disagree. But soul pieces? Who does that?" A shudder raced down Harry's spine at the thought. He didn't even want to know what a person had to do in order to tear their soul. By the looks of it Crowley wasn't all that impressed either, which he had to admit he found odd, all things considering.

"You would think so, wouldn't you? _Mortals._" Crowley shook his head exasperatedly, shoving his hands into the pockets of his suit pants. "Souls are precious to us demons, you could almost say they were a necessary currency. Therefore, no matter how _horrific_ or _vile_ a demon is deemed to be, none would look kindly upon a person who would willingly mutilate their own soul like that before hitting the racks down in Hell."

Morbidly curious, Harry wondered what Crowley meant by the racks, but knew better by now than to ask about it.

"So..." Harry nudged the bag with his foot. "Are you sure that's all of them?"

"Technically, yes."

"'Technically'? What the hell does that mean?!" Crowley sighed and lifted his gaze to rest on Harry's scar.

"These are all of the ones currently in existence." He tilted his head slightly and ran a hand through his hair. "Well, these and the snake, but I'm having someone else deal with that for me. Ghastly creatures, snakes. I'm not sure why anyone would want one as a pet. Now Hellhounds, they make good pets."

"Snake... Nagini? So even living things can be used to house bits of soul?"

"Indeed they can," Crowley immediately sobered up, his demeanour becoming much more serious compared to his previous fairly light-hearted attitude. "In fact, as one point, though not any more, you yourself were a container for some of dear Tommy boy's soul." Leaning forward Crowley tapped Harry's scar with his index finger, something almost akin to pity shining momentarily in his eyes. Harry wasn't sure how to react to the touch, considering that last time they had met; he was feeling conflicted enough as it was. On one hand he was disgusted, mortified even, that something that horrendous had actually been a part of him, but on the other hand he was just glad to know it was gone.

"But... How can it just be gone?" Harry glanced up, pleading with his eyes as Crowley traced the lightning bolt with his finger before pulling away. It was almost funny, in a dark, depressing kind of way, that now that he was so starved for answers he was getting his information from a demon. Imagine that; a demon being the only person – er, lifeform – willing to truthfully answer his questions.

"Your guess is as good as mine, kid. According to your esteemed headmaster," Harry almost laughed at the spiteful way the demon spoke of Dumbledore. It was a refreshing change from the regular hero worship from the Order. "The soul pieces must be destroyed by something essentially irreversible. For a living container that's easy enough – kill it. You, however, are most certainly not dead. Had any near-death experiences you reckon might fit the bill?"

Harry bit his lip, thinking hard. To be frank, he had been in a lot of life-threatening situations, but he'd never come _that_ close to dying, had he?

But wait, yes he had. In his second year.

"I was bitten by a basilisk when I was twelve," he mumbled, more to himself than to Crowley.

"And you didn't die? Curious that." Harry stared past Crowley, ignoring the analytical way the demon was watching him. The diary then; that must have held a piece of Voldemort, and he had destroyed it with a basilisk fang. But he could have sworn he had seen a cup, a chalice, inside the bag. How on earth was he meant to stab that?

"If I destroy all these things, will that make him mortal again?" Harry asked somewhat desperately. If there was something else he would have to do Harry wasn't sure he could go through with it, because it would have to be even more revolting than shredding your own soul.

"Should do. If, for some ridiculous reason, that proves false, I then have no grounds to take your magic, so I really wouldn't gain anything from lying."

Harry couldn't help laughing at that. He hadn't laughed in months. Still, trust a demon to use selfishness as a measure of reliability. Pushing himself up from the dying grass Harry brushed his hair out of his eyes and stared up at Crowley, almost shyly holding his hand out.

Somewhat bemused about the whole thing, Crowley shook his hand.

"I guess I should say thanks, for doing all of this for me," Harry offered up softly, averting his gaze and allowing his hand to fall back to his side. Crowley actually laughed at that.

"You have truly got to be the strangest person I've ever made a deal with, kid." Shaking his head he reached out and lightly dragged his finger across the brand on Harry's pale neck. "I'll see you around, kiddo."

And then he vanished.

Letting out an almost frustrated sigh Harry sank back into the grass, hugged his knees to his chest, and warily poked the bag of soul pieces. Surely they had a proper name, but then again he wasn't sure he wanted to know. There seemed to be a lot of things nowadays that he'd prefer not knowing. Ignorance was not necessarily bliss, in fact it could be incredibly frustrating, but it _was_ sometimes safety.

Hearing the front door of Number 12 swing open Harry turned around, a small frown tugging the corners of his lips down. Had they been standing there that whole time, waiting for Crowley to leave? Number 12 was technically a muggle residence, and as such there was a peep-hole in the front door. The shadowy figure in the doorway could have been spying on him. It was an unsettling thought, and Harry was partly disgusted by how paranoid he had become.

But, Harry mused, it wasn't really paranoia when every time he turned around someone was there, enquiring as to his health and well-being. And, every now and again, he would catch a glimpse of the snarky potions professor, who was still angry at him for going to face down the demon alone. He could only imagine what sort of treatment he might start receiving from the man if he knew Harry had willingly been in contact with even _more_ demons.

"Harry dear? Lunch is ready, if you're eating," the figure stepped out into the light and Harry breathed a sigh of relief, stifling the groan of annoyance that also wanted to break free. Molly Weasley, the bane of his peaceful existence at Grimmauld Place.

It wasn't that he didn't like the Weasley Matriarch, but she was incredibly overbearing. In fact, she had practically moved in to Grimmauld Place for as long as school was in session, and he wouldn't put it past her to convince the rest of the Weasley's to move in as well once the school year was over.

Staring blankly across at her he had to admit to being a little bit relieved. Molly didn't really possess the subtlety necessary to pull off any spying; as soon as she thought something was going down she would burst in, guns blazing. So no, there was no chance that she had seen him talking with Crowley. In honour of that lucky achievement Harry decided to be semi-sociable for once and eat in the kitchen.

"Sure," Carefully stretching out his legs Harry stood up, brushed the grass off of his jeans and resolutely picked up the bag, willing himself to ignore the small tendrils of dark magic that licked at his fingertips. In a house as dark as Grimmauld there was pretty much no chance that anyone would notice anything off about the bag's contents, not while Remus was gone at any rate, so he wasn't too worried about bringing it with him. It was safer than leaving it unattended at any rate.

* * *

The rest of the day passed by as usual, with Harry secluding himself in his room. Lunch had been... awkward, to say the least. More than one person had questioned him about Crowley's bag, but he had ignored all of them. It was none of their business.

Once the sun had set, Harry decided it was safe enough to set about his destruction plans. Gathering his invisibility cloak from his trunk, just in case, he snapped his fingers and quietly called for Dobby. He would have asked Kreacher, the old house-elf had been looking at him oddly for several weeks now and Harry wondered if it were a good sign or a bad one, but he didn't trust him.

"What can I's do for Master Harry Potter sir?"

Harry smiled fondly at the bubbly creature and clasped the bag's drawstrings tightly between his fingers.

"This is all hush hush, right Dobby?" The house-elf nodded enthusiastically and Harry suppressed a chuckle. "I need you to take me to Moaning Myrtle's bathroom. Can you do that?"

"Of course I can!" The elf appeared offended by the insinuation that he might be incapable of doing something to help Harry. Shaking his head Harry just grinned, grabbing Dobby's shoulder with his free hand.

An almost-silent pop and a nauseating feeling in his gut later Harry found himself in the recently flooded girls bathroom on the second floor. Dobby instantly disappeared off to the kitchens once more in order to avoid suspicion. It wouldn't do for the elf to be gone for too long at once.

"_**Open,**_" Harry hissed as he walked towards the snake-engraved sink. Thankfully, it would seem that Myrtle herself was on an excursion to some other part of the school, because Harry really wasn't in any sort of mood to deal with her and her apparent infatuation with him. The water soaked through his shoes, but he ignored it, steeling himself for the plunge down the pipe.

Settling himself on the lip of the pipe he closed his eyes and pushed off.

It took a much shorter time than it felt, and when Harry hit the bone-covered floor at the bottom his lip was sluggishly bleeding from the amount of pressure he had put on it to prevent himself from crying out and giving himself away.

Glancing back up the tunnel he hissed out "_**Close**_**,**" and listened to the sink settling back into place above him. It wouldn't have been possible for Dobby to apparate him into the chamber, the elf having never been there before, but he could easily get Harry out again. With the sink closed it didn't matter who might enter the bathroom, there would be nothing there to suggest his presence in the school. Not with the Marauder's Map locked securely in his trunk back at Grimmauld.

"Come on then," he muttered to himself, clasping his wand tightly in his right hand, "Nothing down here can hurt you, the basilisk is dead for Salazar's sake!" Shaking away his lingering doubts – _it's been _years_, who's to say there's any basilisk left to use_ – Harry put one foot in front of the other and headed further in, stepping over centuries worth of rodent carcasses to reach the inner chamber where he had once faced the shade of the teenage Tom Riddle.

Commanding the giant door to open – and he couldn't actually remember closing it when he left the first time – Harry was hit with a rather unpleasant sense of nostalgia. He was rather grateful that the two situations weren't similar enough to warrant deja vu, because if they were he might actually have to give in to his urge to vomit.

The light inside the inner chamber was dim, and it had an almost green sheen to it, though it might just have been Harry's eyes playing tricks on him. The stench however, was unbearable, and could not possibly have been brought forth by his imagination. Surprisingly it wasn't just a stench of death, but also of mildew and paper rot, of natural decay of all sorts of things. Considering how old the chamber was it shouldn't have been surprising at all, but there hadn't even been a slight hint of it previously. It would seem that Harry had somehow broken whatever preservation spells might have been in place in the chamber.

_Chamber of Secrets indeed_, Harry thought to himself as he approached the basilisk corpse, casting a quick bubble-head charm as he walked to allow him some clean air to breathe. Once upon a time there were probably countless things down in the chamber to discover, and Harry wouldn't have been adverse to doing the discovering, but it was too late for that sort of thing, and he was here on a different sort of mission.

Discarding the bag of dark objects and his invisibility cloak, Harry approached the mouth of the basilisk. If anything, the poisonous fangs were even larger than he remembered. Gritting his teeth and armed with his wand Harry forcefully removed one of the smaller fangs from the corpse's mouth. If it had still been alive Harry might have felt bad about it, but the corpse didn't exactly need any fangs.

"If this doesn't work, I'm officially out of ideas," Harry admitted to the empty chamber. Being idea-less wasn't a good feeling, so he hoped dearly it would work. He didn't pray though; if there were to be some sort of divine intervention in his life he would have much preferred it as a child when he was still living in the cupboard under the stairs.

Emptying the contents of the bag on the worn stone ground Harry examined them, trying to decide which he should attempt to destroy first. Nothing in the small pile looked particularly vulnerable. Shifting his gaze to the side he decided that now wasn't the best time to be doubting the strength of the basilisk's fang or its venom.

Shrugging, Harry chose the gold cup. Sitting it on the ground he knelt down next to it, ignoring the dampness chilling his knees, and stared unsurely at the fang in his hand.

"There's no way this is going to work..."

Pulling his arm back he aimed carefully for the centre of the cup. He would have closed his eyes, but he had no desire to accidentally stab himself, for it would make his whole ordeal rather pointless, not to mention it would save Voldemort the effort of killing him personally. Sending up a quick prayer – to Fate, not God – he tightened his grip on the fang and plunged it down with as much force as he could muster.

As the tip of the fang made contact with the metal venom escaped from it, causing the metal to melt and let out an awful hissing sound. Unfortunately that was only the beginning. As the fang sank deeper into the cup a black smoke emerged, not altogether unlike the apparent physical form of the demon he exorcised all those weeks ago, accompanied by an awful banshee-like screech.

Startled, Harry dropped the fang and clamped his hands over his ears. He shut his eyes and bent forward, forehead resting against the cold, damp floor. There was an overwhelming explosion of dark magic emanating from the cup and it was tearing away at his composure.

Harry wasn't sure he had the determination to be able to go through that three more times.

When he was absolutely certain that the ringing in his head had receded Harry raised himself off of the ground and wrapped his fingers around the basilisk fang once more.

He could do this.

More importantly, he _would_ do this.

* * *

**A/N: About the basilisk destroying the horcrux thing, it's sort of my own headcanon. The way JK described the processes available to destroy horcruxes, it sort of made it seem like Harry's horcrux should have been destroyed in 2nd year, but I suppose she wouldn't have wanted it to happen that way, because she wouldn't have been able to write the final battle the way she did.**

**Um, also, can anyone tell me what EWE means in ff terms? Does it mean Ending Without Epilogue? Because if it does I'm stoked for finally working it out, and if it doesn't, then what?**


	6. Ending the War

**A/N: Welcome to the totally unrealistic version of events you are about to witness. First of all I'd just like to tell you all that it snowed last night, and school was cancelled today, which is freakin' awesome. Secondly, Kanya, popular opinion says EWE means Epilogue? What Epilogue? So, I was close enough.**

* * *

**Chapter 6 – Ending the War:**

_April 1998:_

Two weeks.

Two long, torturous weeks. 16 days if he was going to be really specific. 16 days where Harry paced anxiously throughout Number 12, some days not eating at all, and others eating simply for something to do to take his mind off of the waiting for a little while. There was only so long he could spend sitting in his room at one time trying to figure out how to go about killing Voldemort without even the knowledge that it was yet possible.

He hadn't expected it to take that long. Because seriously, how long does it take a demon to kill a snake? But it did, and it was nerve-racking, and he hated it.

Given that Harry was showing his face around Number 12 more than ever his behaviour had freaked out pretty much every single person who stopped by, but the frantic teen brushed off all of their concerns with a vague explanation of "I'm waiting for something." It didn't to much to alleviate their fears, but at least they knew Harry hadn't simply snapped and gone insane.

When contact was finally made, 16 whole days after his trip to the Chamber of Secrets, Harry wasn't sure whether to laugh, cry, scream, or hit something. The bloody ass hadn't even graced him with his physical presence.

Nope. Instead, while Harry was moping in the kitchen one day, the brand on his neck heated up, not painfully, but still somewhat uncomfortably, and Crowley's voice had whispered in his ear "The snake's dead, luv." Remus had eyed him oddly when his hand shot up to clamp down on the mark, so he quickly forced it back down to the table, but he couldn't fully contain the glare he desperately wanted to throw at the Irish demon.

"Something wrong cub?" Harry couldn't help the slight upwards twitch of his lips. It always made him smile when Remus called him cub, no matter what sort of mood he was in. He could hardly tell the werewolf the truth about his odd behaviour – _oh yeah, I've just been hearing voices in my head, same old same old_ – because he'd probably only freak the poor man out. Admitting to being delusional wasn't the most inspiring thing their saviour could do, even if he knew it was completely real.

"I'm just a bit antsy, you know? I don't think I'll be quite right until Voldemort's good and dead." Shaking his head and ignoring the now sad, pitying look in Remus's amber eyes, Harry climbed to his feet as stoically as possible and walked calmly from the room, slipping up the stairs to his bedroom.

Hedwig hooted softly at him from her perch near the window when he entered. The owl was probably the only person he could really talk to about anything nowadays, because he knew she wouldn't judge and she _couldn't_ try and talk him out of anything. Oh, she'd had a right go at him when he came back from his first meeting with Crowley, but once he'd explained his thoughts to her she calmed down.

If she just so happened to snap at anyone who tried to pet her that wasn't Harry, he was hardly going to complain or try and do anything about it.

"What am I supposed to do, girl?" Harry asked quietly, stroking the snowy owl's head gently with two fingers. He didn't have a clue where Voldemort was – apparently that didn't count as part of the deal – and actually coming face to face with the man was pretty much an essential part of killing him. Not that he wanted to kill him.

Well, he did, but he didn't want it to have to be _him_. After the whole fiasco with Dragomir Harry just wasn't sure if he'd be able to stomach killing. I mean yeah, he was a bad guy, worst of the worst – Harry knew that, he really did, and yet... Why? Why did Fate decide to find some seer and whisper in their ear that a _child_ would have to become a murderer. He'd much rather let his own choices guide his actions, rather than the knowledge of a prophecy.

Even now he couldn't be certain if he was doing all these things because he wanted to, or because something out there was manipulating him to ensure that the job got done, regardless of method.

It wasn't an encouraging thought.

Crowley would be of no further assistance, the Order couldn't know about what he was doing or they would try to stop him, and he was deathly afraid of going back to the church – not because he was afraid of rejection or anger because of his actions, but because he was afraid of making it and the people who worked and visited there targets.

"My life is so messed up," he muttered, eyes burning with months of unshed tears. A small chuckle escaped him when Hedwig crooned softly, bumping her head against Harry's face. It was nice to have someone care for him unconditionally; he'd never had that before, never had the _chance _to have that. Nodding decisively to himself he scrubbed at his eyes with the back of his hand, willing away the tears – now was not an appropriate time to give in to his obvious emotional weakness – and reaching out blindly for the pad of lined paper and the pen he always had within reach lying on top of his desk.

If there was one thing Harry knew Voldemort hated, apart from himself and Headmaster Dumbledore, it was anything muggle. In which case there was only really one way to go about this.

Harry would send him a letter asking to meet, just the two of them – he wasn't naïve enough to expect Voldemort to comply, but he didn't want any witnesses from his side – written on muggle stationary. That was an effective combination of two of the things the Dark Lord despised, AND it was likely to infuriate Dumbledore, which is something Voldemort loved doing.

The pad paper was mostly a choice of convenience, but it would also make the man angrier and more likely to accept.

Harry could only pray he accepted. He didn't have any other ideas as to how to track down Voldemort, because he certainly wasn't going to sit around on his ass waiting for another raid, one that he may or may not attend. The sooner the better, too. The absence of Nagini might not yet have been noticed, but once it was Harry was sure Voldemort would start checking up on his soul pieces – at least, that's what he would do.

Whether the man had enough soul left in his body to make any more was something Harry didn't want to find out.

Settling down on the floor, Hedwig moving to perch on his shoulder as though to oversee and criticise his letter writing skills, he pulled the cap off the pen with his teeth and hovered the tip over the page, thinking.

* * *

An hour and multiple screwed up balls of paper later Harry had what seemed to him like an acceptable letter. It wasn't formal, he had never gotten the hang of writing like that, but it was straight to the point and stated exactly what he wanted to happen.

_Voldemort,_

_Personally I think that this war has gone on for long enough. I'm sick of it. So there's some stupid prophecy dictating my death. So what?  
It would seem that there are a fair amount of people on both sides of the fence vying for my death, so why don't we put them out of their misery?  
I propose a meeting between us, a final showdown if you will. Just you and me. One of us will die and the other will walk away victorious, having effectively won the war for their side.  
Two days from now, April 6th, at the cemetery where you were resurrected._

_Your Enemy,  
Harry James Potter_

Harry had been sorely tempted to write all sorts of scathing and sarcastic comments in the letter, hence all of the discarded drafts, but this would suffice. It might have been a bit morbid, commandeering a fight to the death in a cemetery, but for some reason it was fitting. The place of the Dark Lord's rebirth would be the place of his downfall.

"What do you think Hedwig?" He asked, looking at her from the corner of his eye as she appeared to peer down at the notepad. Abruptly she straightened up and lightly tugged on his earlobe with her beak. Harry wasn't sure if that was a yes or a no, but it was as good as it was going to get.

"Alright girl, I know you aren't going to like this, but I need you to take this to him for me, okay?" Harry asked as he tied the rolled up piece of paper to Hedwig's leg. He didn't bother saying out loud who it was for, he had been discussing it for long enough now and Hedwig was fairly intelligent, he swore she could read.

She ruffled her feathers and gave him a somewhat grave stare, as if warning him to stay out of danger, before acquiescing and flying out the open window. Harry watched her retreating form until it disappeared from sight.

With nothing to do but wait for the time to come, he picked himself up off the ground, threw himself onto his bed, and picked up a book on Hindi folklore.

He might as well do something semi productive.

* * *

Voldemort had responded to his message with a single word, dawn, and so there Harry was, standing in front of the grave of Tom Riddle Senior in the grey near-light of early morning, before people were stirring from restful sleeps and away from prying eyes. Although he doubted it was intentional, he almost felt the need to thank the dark wizard for demanding their meeting be at such a convenient time for sneaking out. Harry shuddered to think what sort of troubles he might have encountered had the Dark Lord said noon or something ridiculous like that. It would appear that he was eager to prove his superiority over Harry, and so chose for it to happen as soon as possible on the specified day.

And yet he wasn't there.

Harry supposed Voldemort wanted to make him wait so that he could make some dramatic entrance. There was a hint of his magic surrounding the cemetery, but no active magical signature. He was nowhere nearby, not in person anyway.

Harry scuffed the ground with his foot, trying _not_ to think about all the nightmare-inducing things that happened the last time he was here. It was pretty twisted of him, he realised, to want to create even more horrible memories in this place, but oddly enough he wasn't disturbed by the thought.

Voldemort's appearance was less dramatic than Harry had anticipated.

One moment Harry was standing alone amongst dilapidated gravestones; the next he was confronted by the serpentine man and a group of black-robed figures – he would have said men, but he got the distinct feeling that Bellatrix was there too. Voldemort had an arrogant, holier-than-thou expression on his pale face, and as he stood before Harry the young man supposed he must have been waiting for him to protest to his entourage.

He wasn't going to. It would be pointless, it wasn't like anything he said had any weight in situations like this anyway.

"So, Harry Potter, come to die at last?"

"Yeah," Harry agreed vaguely, watching Voldemort caress his wand, "Something like that."

In an ankle holster, hidden by his uncharacteristic combat boots, was a dagger. The same dagger, in fact, that he had had specially crafted for his showdown with the demon inside of Dragomir. It hadn't proved to be of much use in that situation, but for a regular mortal...

Plus, if he missed with that, there was always the gun hidden under his shirt in his waistband. He'd been practising, not that anyone cared to notice, ever since his first discussion with Crowley about his magic. He wasn't naïve enough to trust that his luck might improve once this was all over, and being magic-less only left him with finding a new way to defend himself.

Delving into the shadier parts of London was the least of his worries these days.

"What do you think?" Voldemort asked his assembled Death Eaters, not bothering to keep an eye on Harry, "Should I let him die quickly or should he suffer?"

Laughter, harsh and dark, rang out from the cloaked watchers, and Harry arranged his expression into a look of mild annoyance, taking calculated steps closer to the dark wizard, trying to get the man within his throwing range. Step by step he used Voldemort's distraction as he fed his own ego to advance upon him.

Unfortunately, it was never going to be that easy.

A twig snapped beneath Harry's foot, causing Voldemort to spin around, wand in hand and a spell on his lips.

"Crucio!" He roared, jet of red light hitting Harry in the chest.

Gasping, Harry stared blankly up at the dim early-morning sky as his body bent backwards, knees sinking down onto the grass. Pain tore through his body like thousands of white-hot blades piercing deep into his skin, tearing him apart from the inside out.

But he refused to scream. He would not give Voldemort the satisfaction. Even if he were to die here, he would die with his dignity intact.

Finally, after what felt like hours but was really only a minute, Voldemort lifted the curse. Harry's body collapsed into a shivering pile on the grass at Voldemort's feet, gasping in short, sharp lungfuls of air. This was good, despite the pain that would no doubt plague him for the next few days. He was close, much closer now than he could really have hoped to get without detection.

Clenching his teeth Harry forced himself to his knees and peered up at the wizard towering over him from under his messy fringe.

"You'll... have to try... harder than that," He gasped out, glaring defiantly up into red eyes.

Voldemort had the audacity to laugh at him then. A full-bodied laugh that shook his entire body. It would have been scary enough if it had been a sarcastic laugh, but he was truly amused, if you ignored the malicious undertone that couldn't be avoided when dealing with someone as messed up as him.

"Oh, I'm going to have fun with you today Potter." Voldemort's pale barely-there lips twitched into a smirk that promised pain. "Crucio."

Harry bit his tongue, filling his mouth with the sharp, bitter, metallic tang of blood. He had just opened his mouth to say something else when the pain rocketed through his body once again, inflaming old injuries he didn't even know he had.

His hands curled in the grass, fingers digging into the graveyard dirt, but he refused to bow to the pain. Not this time.

Harry vaguely registered the sound of the Death Eaters laughing at his misfortune, but everything was fuzzy. If he didn't know better he would have sworn his brain was melting from the strain on his nerves.

What was he even doing here? When Voldemort released the curse he could simply apparate back to Grimmauld and recover, lick his wounds so to speak.

With the end of the curse three minutes later came coherent thought and pain. An insurmountable level of pain. Pain on a level he had never experienced before, and he had been under the cruciatus more times than he cared to admit. It was ridiculous, how strongly dark magic reacted to Voldemort.

"Still feeling cocky, Potter?"

Harry could barely breathe, his lungs burned so badly; he hardly had the energy left to respond to the Dark Lord's taunts.

"That's what I thought."

The gun under Harry's shirt was a cold weight against his skin. He knew he should use it, but he no longer felt that his muscles would be able to cope with trying to aim it. What he needed was a distraction, a chance for him to pull himself together as best he could under the circumstances.

Coughing, Harry curled in on himself, hands releasing the ground to clutch at his stomach. Steeling himself, he took a breath and spat blood onto the hem of Voldemort's robe. As expected, the wizard recoiled in disgust. Harry smirked through his pain and, fingers trembling, he fumbled inside his boot for his knife.

"Sectumsempra!" Voldemort yelled in disgust, jabbing his wand at Harry's trembling form. Emerald eyes noted one of the cloaked figures stiffen at the curse, but ignored it.

"_Shit_," Harry hissed out, revolted at the unsettling feeling of warm blood dripping from a serious cut to his left arm, rolling down over his hyper-sensitive nerve-endings. Through all of it Harry refused to let go of the knife. It was his life-line. He would deal with the pain and his injuries when all of this was over, not a moment before.

"Stand up Potter!" The Dark Lord demanded, crimson eyes glaring down at him. "If you are to die I wish to kill you while standing, not while you're in a quivering pile at my feet, regardless of how pleasant an image that is."

That was a low blow, Harry thought to himself as he curled his fingers tighter around the hilt of the blade, digging the dagger into the grass to help him stand. Blood was pounding in his ears, the beating of his heart drowning out what he knew to be the biting laughter of evil men as he struggled to his feet.

Voldemort paid no mind to the glinting dagger encased in Harry's right hand, if he saw it at all. Crimson blood dripped in slow drops across the surface of the blade, tarnishing it.

"There, isn't that better? Wouldn't you rather die on your feet?"

Harry scowled, face twisting into a bitter expression of scorn.

"You don't get to order me around, Tom."

Lurching forward, stumbling as his body protested his movement, Harry raised the dagger and, using his momentum as he tripped, plunged the blade deep into Voldemort's chest. For a moment Harry could have sworn he felt hands on his shoulders, pushing him forward, because he sure as hell didn't think he had that sort of stamina left in him, stumble or no stumble.

Blood burst from his chest, coating Harry's clothes, but he didn't notice. As the life fled from the Dark Lord's body his vision faded, darkening first at the edges, then spreading until there was nothing left. The last thing he saw – or thought he saw anyway – was a figure in a black suit.

Trembling limbs collapsing underneath him, he fell, unconscious, to the ground.

* * *

**A/N: So you know how I said it was unrealistic at the beginning? Yeah, so that happened. I just need moldy-voldy _dead_, you know? So that Harry isn't tied to Britain any more and can get the hell out of dodge.**

**Again, thanks to everyone who is reading this, and everyone who's reviewing and favouriting and following. I love you all :)**


	7. Gringotts

**A/N: Hello again everyone. Good to see that no-one ran at me with pitchforks and fire for my weird last chapter. I warn you now, this is sort of fillery, and so is the next chapter, although I suppose they both have semi-important things in them... Not that I can actually remember 100% what's in this chapter... Love you guys, see you on the flip side**

* * *

**Chapter 7 – Gringotts:**

The first thing Harry saw was harsh, bright light, so he closed his eyes again.

Movement off to the side caught his attention, but he wasn't keen on opening his eyes again anytime soon, so he moved to sit up instead. At least, that's what he intended to do.

The moment he attempted to move his fingers pain shot through his body, causing his entire body to seize up. Despite his clenched teeth an achingly pained moan fought its way out.

Something brushed against his shoulder and he nearly screamed. It felt as though he were covered in a layer of fire; everything _burned_. Voldemort was dead now, he remembered that, so why couldn't they just let him _die?_ It would be infinitely less painful!

"Potter!"

Harry's internal rambling monologue cut off abruptly and he hesitantly cracked open an eye at the brisk, annoyed voice somewhere near his head.

"Good, you _are_ awake. I wasn't looking forward to dealing with another of your petty night terrors." The snarky voice continued, unsympathetic.

Internally Harry frowned – for he didn't dare try and move any of the muscles in his face – he knew that voice, but there was no reason for him to be hearing it now. Carefully, slowly, Harry opened both his eyes, fighting to ignore the pain that flared up even in his eyelids. This wasn't living; this was a daze of agony.

"I ought to leave you here to suffer in pain for weeks on end, because believe me, with the length of time you were under it will take longer than three days to heal. You're lucky I was there, or you would have bled out from the Dark Lord's final curse. Idiot boy."

Harry couldn't decipher whether the 'idiot' was affectionate or irritable. Probably annoyed. It would suit his character better than the alternative.

"I want answers," Snape informed him emotionlessly, waving a vial in Harry's line of sight, "That's the only reason I'm going to give this to you. The Headmaster told me to leave you be, and before you try and ask, no, he has no idea that you're laid up in bed, or that you've been comatose for the last two and a half days."

Without giving him a chance to really process what had been said Snape uncorked the vial and forced it between Harry's lips, pouring it down his throat, not caring as he coughed and spluttered, choking it down. It wasn't as foul as skel-e-grow, but it was up there. For a moment he almost empathised with what Snape must have had to go through over the years, but then he remembered who it was hovering over him, choking him and forcing him to move. The compassion quickly evaporated.

"Don't you dare whine. I'm not here to listen to your complaints. It's your own stupidity that landed you like this."

Harry felt that that was meant to be a reprimand, but he didn't care. He'd finally done what everyone had been expecting of him. Couldn't they just leave him in peace?

"First, I suppose it's only fair to tell you that yes, He is truly dead this time. I'm not sure how you managed it, because the Headmaster made it quite clear to me that it wasn't yet possible, since he hadn't collected or destroyed all of the Dark Lord's horcruxes."

"That's what they're called then?" Harry gasped out, throat scratchy from sleep and lack of use. Snape scowled at him, though it was a more thoughtful, scrutinising scowl than his usual I-despise-being-in-your-presence scowl.

"How did you know about them?"

"Destroyed 'em."

Even Harry's throat was burning, regardless of the slight numbness that had overtaken his limbs after the potion was forced down his throat. He needed a glass of water, but he highly doubted Snape would acquiesce to being his 'servant' for any reason other than if he was truly dying, and even then he decided, now that he was no longer required, Snape would rather watch him die.

"Fine then. Who told you about them, Potter?" Snape's beady black eyes were boring into him so intently that Harry passingly wondered if he were attempting legilimency, but as he felt no pressure against his shields there was no evidence suggesting it was anything other than his best intimidating stare.

Harry swallowed heavily, refusing to speak. There was no way he was going to incriminate Crowley, because then he would be incriminating himself. Just because demons were the stuff of myth and legend in the magical world it didn't mean he wouldn't be in trouble for openly consorting with one.

"Insufferable brat. Fine. Do not tell me."

If that was Snape _whining_, and Harry had to admit, it very well could be, then the world must be ending. Or Hell had frozen over. He sort of hoped it wasn't the second one, magically binding contract and all that.

"As much as I enjoy seeing you lying here, prone and suffering, I feel it is in both of our best interests for you to recover as quickly as possible, if only to avoid suspicion. Word hasn't gotten out yet about what you did, but when it does I doubt you'll want to be anywhere nearby. Which, as much as it pains me to do this, means I shall be leaving you with a supply of potions that will aid you in recovering from your bout of torture."

Harry blinked up at his old teacher, barely biting back the 'why' that wanted to be asked. The pain wasn't sufficient for him to die from, he realised that now, so simply doing what he was told for once would allow him to leave sooner rather than later. Though he was loathe to admit it, Snape was correct, he wanted to be nowhere near anyone, particularly Dumbledore, once word got around of Voldemort's death.

"Thank you," Harry whispered instead, staring up into cold, coal-coloured eyes. They blinked once, the only tell that what Harry said had surprised the older man. Scowl morphing back to irritated the potions master stood up and swept from the room, trademark black robes flaring out behind him.

Closing his eyes Harry tried to go back to sleep. He needed as much energy as he could get in order to get away from the Order without anyone noticing.

* * *

_13th April 1998:_

Four days after he first woke up from his apparent coma Harry decided it was time to go.

Climbing to his feet on still trembling legs – it wasn't as bad as it had been, but he certainly wouldn't be walking with much speed any time soon – he threw all of his possessions except for his books into his trunk, shrunk it, and put it in the pocket of his jeans.

His books went into the messenger bag he had begged Hermione to cast undetectable extension and feather-light charms on. They had become his life over the past year and he needed to know they were with him, that he could get to them at any time. His trunk just wasn't good enough – not to mention they wouldn't fit in there anyway.

Grimmauld Place was quiet, for once free of the constant sound of motion coming from downstairs. Whether or not that meant the house was unoccupied was a whole other question, but not one he was willing to find the answer to.

Checking once again that he had everything with him he pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, casting a shadow over his face to make it harder to recognise him – not that wizards were likely to want to pay much attention to anyone dressed as a muggle in Diagon Alley.

His knife, which had somehow found its way back to him, had been thoroughly cleaned and was back in its holster around his ankle; his gun was holstered around his waist, sitting under a disillusionment charm.

Satisfied, and stoically ignoring the fainter trembles that shot down his arms erratically, Harry wrapped the fingers of his left hand around the strap of his bag and clenched his eyes shut, twisting on the spot.

* * *

Apparating, as per usual, made Harry want to sit down, throw up and fall over all at once. It was not something he would miss once he was no longer able to do it, regardless of the convenience. Getting around on his own two feet was much easier on his body, and less likely to leave him with an impressive migraine.

Shaking it off – which he quickly realised was a bad idea – Harry checked his hood, readjusted the strap of his bag, and stepped out of the shadowed alleyway he had chosen to apparate into just down the street from the Leaky Cauldron.

It was risky, going from Muggle London, but it was risky coming out at all, full stop. People hated him and loved him, and if he ran into any of his old classmates he simply knew he would get mobbed. It would put a rather large dampener on his plans.

Walking briskly, eye twitching as pain jolted up his legs every time his feet hit the pavement, Harry slipped into the Leaky Cauldron, ignored the greeting called out by Tom the barkeep, and continued, mostly unnoticed, through to the brick wall which hid the entrance to Diagon Alley.

To Harry, it was almost funny how _normal_ everything seemed in Diagon. The Hogwarts term was still in session, so the crowds were minimal, but there was no celebrating, only the ever-present slight fear hovering at the edge of their minds to mar their day.

Harry knew their mind-set, and he also knew the true reality. None of them mattered to him anymore; only his destination, the pristine building at the end of the Alley. Gringotts.

Despite his now somewhat prolonged exposure to the Wizarding World, Harry had yet to gain any insight into how the economy really ran, or even what might be his in possession of the bank. It wasn't that he was hoping for some untold fortune awaiting him in the depths of the bank, he simply wanted to know what was rightfully his, and what he could do with it in his absence.

Harry nodded at the perpetually scowling goblin just inside the main doors into the bank, earning himself an extra dark sneer. Inwardly Harry rolled his eyes; it was honestly appalling that goblins had been so conditioned to expecting dismissive, arrogant and rude behaviour from wizards that they were suspicious of every action.

Heading for the closest free teller Harry was surprised to note that the goblin he found himself in front of was the one goblin whom Harry had met beforehand.

"Griphook, I would like to speak to someone about my accounts," Harry said quietly to the goblin, still somewhat wary of the harsh-looking creatures. When Griphook stared down his long nose at Harry, in what Harry assumed was a scowl – it was hard to tell with goblins – he stuttered out a "Please," thinking that Griphook was displeased with him.

Silent, the goblin continued to stare for a moment longer, before stepping away from his spot and gesturing for Harry to follow him. Bewildered, Harry readily complied, following the goblin through a maze of corridors until he was certain that he would be lost for days trying to find his way out on his own – perhaps that was the point.

Eventually Griphook came to a stop before a rather extravagant set of double doors – not extravagant for goblins in general, just a bit showy, in Harry's opinion, for so far into the building and possibly underground – which had a golden nameplate stuck to them.

_Ragnar, Inheritances._

And underneath that it read:

_Black vault manager._

It wasn't exactly what Harry had been expecting, but then again, what did he know about banks? Absolutely nothing, not even about muggle establishments.

Griphook pushed open one of the doors and said something in what Harry supposed was the language of goblins, harsh, guttural sounds that he would hate to have to attempt to replicate. After receiving an equally harsh-sounding response Griphook ushered Harry inside and promptly left.

Goblins didn't have the greatest manners, but Harry supposed he could forgive them.

"Mister Potter," Ragnar greeted him, offering up what Harry assumed was a smile – all he knew was that he didn't want to be anywhere near those jagged teeth. "I had both not been expecting this and been waiting for your visit."

Harry blinked owlishly at the goblin, sinking into the chair before the desk.

What?

"Why were you expecting me? I hadn't even thought of coming here until this morning when I woke up."

Ragnar's vicious grin receded, transforming into an expression akin to the scowls Harry was more used to receiving from the goblins.

"I was waiting because you needed to come here in order to properly receive what was left to you in the late Lord Black's will."

For some obscure reason Harry felt Ragnar was annoyed with him, but Harry was beyond confused. Sirius had had a will? Sirius had left him something? Why hadn't anyone told him about that?

"I was unaware that Sirius had made a will," Harry admitted quietly. The look on Ragnar's face made him instantly wish he had kept his mouth shut.

"Gringotts sent you an owl informing you of the will reading. Are you telling me you never received it?" Ragnar snarled, beady eyes blazing. Of course, Harry realised, if something happened that might lessen the reputation of the bank the goblins probably had every right to be as furious as Ragnar appeared then.

"B-but, you know, the owl could have just gotten lost, right?" Even Harry knew how unlikely that was; Hedwig had never failed to deliver a letter, and the goblins wouldn't have any sub-par delivery owls.

"Intercepted, yes, but not lost."

Harry gulped nervously, although he knew that the glare Ragnar was sporting wasn't directed at him. Was it seriously that bad?

"Surely that, um, the l-letter, uh, couldn't you just tell me about it now?" Harry mentally cursed himself for allowing Ragnar's glare to draw a stutter from him, but he needed to get it out. He didn't want to be caught in the goblin's rage.

"You are correct, Mister Potter, however I will be initiating an investigation into this matter once you leave," Ragnar conceded, glare lessening some as he settled into a more business-like manner.

"Now, it would take time to retrieve the late Mister Black's will from the archives, where it was stored after the will-reading. Instead, I shall simply recite from memory what applies to you. He left you his vault, Number 12 Grimmauld Place and all its contents, and he made you his heir, making you the legal Head of the Black family. Had this been known to you at the time, it would have entitled you to an emancipation. As it is, you are already a legal adult, so the point is null."

"Wait, vault? He left me his vault? I have enough money as it is!" Harry protested suddenly, mind whirling. Emancipation? Heir? Freaking _Grimmauld Place?_

"Personal wealth not-with-standing, yes, Mister Black left you his vault. Some of the money from said vault was gifted to Mister Lupin, but the majority of it is still yours."

"But I don't- I- Ugh... I haven't got any use for what he's left me. I'm leaving the Magical World as soon as possible and I'm never coming back."

"Because Voldemort is dead?" Ragnar asked, sneer still in place – though there was a knowing look in his beady coal black eyes. Taking a deep breath Harry sunk further into the chair.

"How did you know that?" He asked. It wasn't accusing or suspicious, he just wanted to know if he should be worried.

"Tom Riddle also had a vault at Gringotts. It is key that we know when wizards come and go in order to know what to do with them." It was a vague answer, but it was all Harry needed to know. Only the goblins knew.

"That- Okay. Good." Thinking fast, Harry ran a hand through his unruly hair, tugging on the ends. "Can you- Can _I_, give Grimmauld to Remus Lupin?" He knew the werewolf cared for him, and he sort of owed him for forcing the ex-professor to put up with his moods and elusive, anti-social behaviour over the past few years.

"Yes, of course Mister Potter. Seeing as it is now yours you may do whatever you wish with it." Ragnar watched Harry curiously. Obviously he was aware of Lupin's status as a werewolf, and perhaps he was wondering why Harry would choose him to receive his things. Trust a goblin to judge your every move.

"Right, do that then please." Harry watched Ragnar pull a sheaf of parchment from some unseen drawer and set it upon the desk between them.

"You must sign the deed. I shall take care of the rest."

"Oh, yeah, of course." Awkwardly picking up the quill offered to him – he had gotten accustomed to writing with muggle pens again – Harry shuffled closer to the desk and scribbled down his chicken-scratch signature. His handwriting was a million times better with a pen – quills were undoubtedly harder to hold.

"So, ah, I want you to give him a key to Sirius's vault too. I know he won't accept it if I just sign the whole thing over to him, but at least that way if he needs to he can access the money." Harry didn't know why he felt the need to explain himself to the goblin, but it was all just pouring out; justification, he supposed, for his apparently unheard of behaviour.

"That can be arranged," Ragnar assured him, procuring another piece of parchment for Harry to produce his illegible signature on.

Vaguely overwhelmed Harry simply went through the actions dictated to him by the goblin, putting a possibly unwise amount of trust in Ragnar.

Noting Harry's discomfort Ragnar placed a small, intricately carved box on his desk and opened the lid so that its contents were facing him, rather than the distressed young man.

"Perhaps it would be prudent to conclude our meeting sooner rather than later," Ragnar suggested, voice softer than before, perhaps sensing the exhaustion that Harry felt, a consequence of marching on when in vicious pain.

"Yeah, sounds good," Harry echoed quietly, eyeing the box with a suppressed apprehension.

"These are your family rings," Ragnar informed Harry, seeing the question in darkened emerald eyes. "Proof of your status as Head of those families."

Harry physically recoiled in his seat. He didn't _want_ any more responsibility thrust on to him, especially not in the Wizarding World!

"Why?" He muttered dejectedly, completely pushing his hood away from his head and looking up at the ceiling, as if answers were carved into it.

"You may not wish for them right now Mister Potter, but one day it may aid you to be able to show such a status. What is it you humans say? 'Better safe than sorry'?"

Lowering his gaze to the goblin Harry levelled him with an unimpressed stare.

"Sure…" He acquiesced, disbelievingly. Tentatively, Harry reached out and grasped the box, pulling it closer. Inside sat two signet rings, intricately detailed with the crests of the Black and Potter families, respectively. Harry hadn't even known he _had_ a family crest. "I don't have to wear them, do I? I don't wear rings…"

"It would be wisest to keep them on your person," Ragnar pointed out, business-like once more.

"Mmm..." Hummed Harry, poking the Potter ring. Perhaps if he wore them around a chain...

Reaching under his shirt Harry pulled out the silver chain he had taken to wearing. Hanging from it already was a curious pendant, a symbol known only to Harry in this part of England. It was an anti-possession charm. With Crowley watching over him – or whatever it was that the demon was trying to play at by bloody well branding him – Harry wasn't sure if other demons would attempt it, but it was better to be safe than sorry. Not like he made a show of informing people about demons anyway.

"Can I just put them on here?" He asked Ragnar, eyes guarded as he noticed the way the goblin was scrutinising his charm.

"It is acceptable. First however, you must put the rings on your finger in order to claim them."

Puzzled, but seeing no reason not to comply, Harry removed the ornate rings from the decorative box and placed both of them on fingers on his left hand. For a moment nothing happened, and he felt a little silly, much as he had done when attempting the crossroads summoning, but then there was a pin-prick, a very slight, momentary pain, and the over-sized rings shrunk to fit securely to his fingers, his magic reaching out to coat them.

That might be a problem once he no longer had a magical signature, he mused distractedly as he pulled the rings off, setting them back in the box so that he could unclasp his chain. Once more Ragnar's eyes honed in on the charm, and Harry found it hard to ignore as he set about looping the cool metal through the rings – one on either side of the charm, to even it out.

When Harry put the chain back around his neck Ragnar's gaze shifted slightly, and Harry quickly brushed his hair down over his neck again. It was too late.

"Demons are nasty creatures Mister Potter, you would be wise not to show that to anyone, if you can at all avoid it," the goblin instructed him.

"I- yes... What? No. I don't want to know."

Unsettled, Harry shifted in his seat, one hand in his pocket, cradling his shrunken trunk. Goblins knew about demons. Goblins knew about _Crowley_, because there had been a deep, knowing look in Ragnar's eyes that accompanied his warning. Goblins knew about the supernatural.

And to be honest? That terrified Harry. It really did.

* * *

**A/N: So, this might seem a little irrelevant, but I keep seeing the Crowley kiss when I scroll through my document that houses this lovely story, and I find I'm quite proud of it. It never ceases to amuse me, seeing those dramatic little sentences :P At least this is more interesting than my homework, so you don't have to worry about me abandoning it**


	8. Preparations

**A/N: What's up everyone? Happy Tuesday, or you know, whatever. It's Matariki over here, so... Happy Maori New Year or something. I'm seriously moved by all of the love you guys are giving me with this story, it's heartwarming.**

* * *

**Chapter 8 – Preparations:**

From the moment Ragnar noticed his charm Harry had been on edge, waiting in terror for someone to come after him, to lock him up. Because Ragnar _knew_ things that he had no right to know, and a deep hatred of wizards for easy justification.

But nothing happened.

Ever the compliant bank manager Ragnar had followed Harry's requests to the letter, even pouring all of his wizarding money into a muggle bank account without so much as a single complaint – he was still waiting for the backlash on that one, surely the goblins couldn't be happy with him taking that much money away from the bank.

Paper trails? No problem.

Harry was actually pretty amazed at what the goblins could accomplish. He knew he'd never be able to lay a convincing paper trail, even if he could get access to the appropriate places. Admin just wasn't his thing. Never had been.

All Harry had said was that he wished he were able to sit his GCSEs – he would like to have had _some_ sort of muggle qualification, considering he was going to spend the rest of his life living among them (unless, god forbid, the Ministry started a proper sector about Wizard-Muggle interaction) – and Ragnar had immediately set about creating a paper trail with enough detail and information to convince the Education Board that he should be allowed to sit them (the 'official' story was that he had been home-schooled past the age of 11, because making fake school records was riskier than other things).

Goblins, going against normal perceptions, kept a close eye on the situation in the Muggle world, and were completely up-to-date on how things worked. Perhaps it was one of the reasons they looked down upon wizards? Harry wouldn't blame them for it, he had felt similarly since the moment he stepped foot in Diagon Alley for the first time. Robes? Quills? Really?

Actually _sitting_ the exams was another story altogether. Over the last two years Harry had buried most of his self-taught 'practical' muggle knowledge beneath layers and layers of myths and facts about the supernatural. Sifting through all of his memories to find the information he actually needed for the exams was more difficult than he had originally anticipated, and to be honest, he almost failed.

Nowadays Harry was living in a flat in Surrey, far away from Privet Drive. There was a niggling feeling he had that convinced him to move near the church, to keep an eye on it. It wasn't that he actually thought any demon would bother to go to enough effort to find out that Harry had visited the church all of two times and decide to massacre everyone, but he felt he owed Father Anderson to stand guard while he was still in the country.

Not that he planned on staying in the country all that much longer.

It had taken a month to sort out his GCSEs, and he had decided not to contact Crowley again until he was certain he could settle fairly well into muggle life. That would take time, despite his hefty experience living with the Dursleys – the way he lived with them was hardly a good thing to model his life after.

For the time being, he had taken over the running of Dragomir's Bookstore in lieu of something to spend his time doing. It was convenient as well, since he could sit on a stool behind the counter all day – his muscles still cramped up randomly every now and again from his prolonged exposure to the cruciatus; he was getting over it thanks to the potions, but it was slower going than he had anticipated.

Being an out-of-the-way second-hand bookstore meant that Harry didn't get a hell of a lot of customers, but that suited him just fine. He spent a lot of time on his hands and knees in the back room, scrubbing the demon traps off of the floorboards and off the walls. Harry could have used magic, but that was lazy, and he needed something to occupy himself with. Even reading could get tedious occasionally.

Dragomir's shop did have an interesting collection of texts though, which, through magical protection, hadn't been stolen during the period of inactivity in the store. Harry was grateful for the lack of customers, because it meant there were more books for him to choose from to add to his own personal collection. He knew Dragomir wouldn't mind. In fact, he'd probably have protested Harry 'wasting' any time running the store at all.

If Harry was honest with himself he was stalling. Saying he was stalling for time wasn't quite correct, because one way or another a year from April 6th was the maximum amount of time available to him. Part of him was stalling for information – when was word going to get out about Voldemort? What would happen? Would they try and track him down? Would they hate him? Have parades?

Harry couldn't see the wizards having a parade, not even in celebration.

But if they tracked him down, what would it be for?

While he had made peace with his desire to leave the country, he couldn't completely dispel the curiosity that dwelled within him. Would they try and force him into the limelight? Probably. And that's what he didn't want. That's why he could never go back there.

Another thing Harry couldn't imagine was them welcoming him with open arms once they realised he was a squib – which he would be, sooner than later. He'd heard whispers of what happened to squibs – they weren't appreciated. They didn't deserve the magical community when they held no magic.

Backwards. Wizards were truly backwards people.

And life kept moving on around him.

* * *

As the months passed, Harry became aware of a number of demons in the area. They were never around for long, obviously dropping by for some soul collection or another before disappearing back to wherever it was that demons went when they had free time.

There were two distinct types of demon, Harry had come to realise, because they acted in very different ways.

Walking from the corner store to his apartment one afternoon Harry had noticed a businessman heading in the opposite direction. It wouldn't have been worth noticing if it wasn't for the fact that his eyes had momentarily flashed black. Instinctively Harry had tensed up, and he quickened his pace ever so slightly. The demon, for it was definitely a demon, noticed this, and took a moment to actually examine Harry, step not faltering in the slightest. When black-tinted eyes reached his neck Harry had automatically raised his hand to cover the mark Crowley had made. The demon blinked once, eyes fixated on Harry's hand, before the businessman sneered down at him and walked off.

Upon arriving at his apartment Harry still hadn't figured out if the sneer was mocking, disgusted or a challenge. He wasn't sure he wanted to find out.

The second type of demon was even more confusing.

A chipper, voluptuous young woman had been passing by _Broken Pieces_ as Harry was locking up one afternoon. Something about her presence had sent a chill down Harry's spine, so he watched her reflection in the window with careful scrutiny. She looked normal enough – olive skin, jet-black hair piled in a neat bun at the base of her skull – but her aura was way out of whack. (Muggles, Harry had noticed, while lacking the uniqueness of individual magical signatures, still had a distinct _feel_ about them, if you looked hard enough). Their eyes met through the reflection, and Harry wasn't the only one who froze. Red bled into the woman's irises as she stood, frozen, gaze locked on Harry. They flickered uncertainly up and down his form. He knew the moment she saw his brand – as he had started calling it in his head – because her eyes widened, first in shock, then in fear, before she disappeared in the blink of an eye.

It was the combination of the two that had Harry finally deciding on the meaning of the cryptic symbol marring his neck.

In the simplest of terms, it read something along the lines of "Property of Crowley, hands off". Crude, and rather barbaric from a human standpoint, but apparently it was effective. Although, if the sneering demon was anything to go by, Crowley didn't exactly have the respect from other demons that Harry had assumed he would have, being the so-called 'King of the Crossroads' and all.

While it was only a very small mystery solved, and not even one of any real importance, Harry felt good to have finally accomplished something away from the Wizarding World.

* * *

At the end of five months of recuperation Harry felt it was imperative he get a real move on with the rest of his life.

First stop?

Gringotts.

Harry had avoided the bank since his overwhelming visit all those months ago – absently, he toyed with the chain around his neck which now held his family rings. Now he was facing the inevitable return trip. There was nothing pleasant about the thought.

Once again Harry slipped into Diagon Alley, hood pulled forward, shoulders slouched, hands in his pockets. Wearing a hood at a time like this – they were finally aware of Voldemort's death – was bound to draw suspicion, so he was trying to downplay any attention by playing the moody muggleborn or the particularly rebellious pureblood teenager. All of his clothes were muggle, and quite obviously so – the robes had been the first thing he got rid of when he left, he definitely wasn't going to miss them. A Death Eater would never stoop so low, even for the sake of a disguise. It would be an insult to their pureblood dignity.

People filled the streets, more-so than he had been expecting, but he managed to manoeuvre his way through them without drawing too much attention to himself. A young boy had given him an odd look, but it might have been because of the band logo on the back of his hoodie.

Gringotts was as intimidating and impressive as ever – not that he had expected anything to have changed since his last visit. The goblins sneered down their long noses at everyone who passed through the doors.

Griphook, Harry noted with slight dread, wasn't anywhere to be seen, so he would have to engage the assistance of someone else. It wasn't that he was afraid of goblins, it was simply so much easier to go through the familiar goblin, because Griphook didn't sneer down at him as much as all the others.

If Harry was perfectly honest, he didn't actually need to be at Gringotts. All of his paperwork had gone through successfully – not that he had ever really doubted the goblins – so he could, and would, get his passport the regular muggle way. It was something he needed to get used to anyway. Once he left he wouldn't be able to rely on the goblins for all of his paperwork.

Harry was cutting his ties with this final visit. He needed to say goodbye, in a way. There wasn't really anyone he was saying goodbye _to_, he didn't even dare leave a note for Remus, or perhaps the ever-persistent Hermione.

He had nothing against them, they had simply drifted to the edge of importance in his life. Sure, he would miss them – Ron, not so much; he had given up pretty easily when Harry began secluding himself – but in order to really have a fresh start he needed to get away from them altogether.

Waving down a teller Harry requested to see Ragnar once more.

The visit was short and awkward, Harry feeling a bit sentimental and Ragnar probably not having the same patience with him now that he was no longer technically a customer at Gringotts. Still, when Harry walked out of the bank for what he swore was the last time, he felt more prepared somehow.

* * *

Apart from filling out his passport application – which he did immediately, under his new assumed name, Harry Evan Peverell – the next thing Harry needed to do was settle his deal with Crowley. He still had time left before the agreed last-chance date, but Harry decided it was better to do it on his terms, rather than Crowley's.

Harry was half tempted to go back to the crossroads where his summoning box was buried for this next encounter, but decided against it. He had no clue what might happen to his body once his magic was gone; not to mention he would have to figure out how to get back to Surrey from there on his own.

No, doing it in his own apartment was the safest option, and he wouldn't even insult the demon by putting up any – extra – demon traps. There was one under the doormat, but he couldn't see Crowley coming in the front door. If he did, well, bad planning on Crowley's behalf, because honestly? He should have expected Harry to be a little paranoid.

It was November and it was starting to get bitterly cold when Harry was finally ready. Holed up in his apartment one evening Harry was pacing back and forth across his living room.

Crowley hadn't really given him any instructions on how to contact him, and Harry couldn't be bothered looking through all of his books for the right spell to summon him. Instead, Harry was rubbing his hand over Crowley's brand and contemplating the situation.

Absorbed as he was in his pacing he initially failed to notice the new addition to his living room. It wasn't until he almost tripped over carefully polished black dress shoes that he came to a stop and actually took in Crowley's form draped comfortably across his armchair.

"Well, that works I guess," Harry commented awkwardly, tugging on his hair.

"Well you called, I answered." Crowley flashed him a winning smile, which Harry didn't believe for a second was genuine.

"Yes, well... yes." Suddenly Harry found himself at a loss for words, so he sat down on the couch for something to do with himself.

"Let me guess," Crowley drawled after a stretched silence, "You wanted to pay your debt?"

Mutely, Harry nodded as Crowley scrutinised his nails.

"Good, good, that's good."

Utterly lost, Harry picked at the fraying hem of his t-shirt, waiting for some sort of explanation or action or _something_.

"Let's see then," Crowley muttered, surging to his feet and marching across the room to stand before the couch. "I've never done this before, obviously." A thoughtful look passed over his face for a moment. "It might hurt."

Without any further warning, Crowley plunged his hand into Harry's chest. The poor wizard grunted and stared wide-eyed up at Crowley's face, contorted in concentration, so he wouldn't have to look at the _hand that was inside his freaking chest!_

Pain erupted from his core. There was a frightening tugging sensation in his chest and he had to fight his reflexive reaction to curl up and fight the intrusion. This shouldn't be happening, _why had he agreed to this? _Dying would be less painful.

And then suddenly it was all over, and Harry collapsed against the back of the couch, gasping in huge lungfuls of air, his body desperately scrambling to fill the emptiness.

_Empty._

There was a gaping hole inside of him. Had magic really had that much of an effect on his life up until this point?

Dark eyes were watching him, an odd sheen to them, as Crowley held a softly glowing orb in his hand. Was that his magic?

Harry's fingers twitched, his hand wanting to reach out and take it back. This wasn't fair, Crowley couldn't just _take_ it. Surely there had to be rules.

_But there are,_ his subconscious reminded him, _and you accepted his terms. This is all on you. It was your choice. Now face the consequences._

* * *

**A/N: So, umm, by the time I got around to finishing this chapter I could no longer remember why I wanted Harry to go back to Gringotts, but I couldn't be bothered taking that part out, so please don't call me up on the weirdness of that part. Next chapter is the move, and then he'll finally get a glimpse of some hunters. We're getting somewhere folks, albeit somewhat slowly. See you all next week.**


	9. Re-adjusting and Moving

**A/N: Hey everyone. Guess what? Cracked the 300 follower mark through the last week. Freaking incredible that is. I'm astounded. Also, sorry that this chapter isn't as long as the others, I got a bit lost on it this week, plus I'm attempting to write a script for a SPN competition on facebook, and that's bloody difficult let me tell you. I would tell you what page it was on, but then you might enter it, and I don't need any more competition than I already have for my sub-par script-writing abilities.**

* * *

**Chapter 9 – Re-adjusting and Moving:**

Being incapable of using magic, Harry soon discovered, was completely different that simply choosing not to. When by choice he could still feel his magic flowing through him, and his senses were enhanced. Without it he felt unfathomably, irrevocably empty. Never in his wildest dreams had he expected it to be so _bad._

It had been two weeks since Crowley's life-changing visit, and Harry had barely moved from his couch. There was a sense of loss emanating from the lounge now, and Harry found it so fitting he couldn't bring himself to leave.

Lost.

Harry had lost something unthinkably important, and he would never get it back.

The empty feeling in his core had settled down some in the fourteen days, seven hours and thirty-seven minutes since it began, but even so, there remained a soul-deep (and when did he start believing in souls? Probably around the same time he met his first demon...) ache that refused to dissipate. In theory Harry knew he was being pathetic. He knew he needed to hurry up and leave already before someone got it in their head to track him down (and he wished them luck, Harry doubted tracking spells would have anywhere near the same potency with only an echo of his magical signature to work with). Moving on, starting a new life, hadn't that been the plan?

He had been supposed to leave Britain. Go to Asia, America, Oceania. Anywhere that wasn't Europe. Where had all of his determination gone?

_To Hell, most likely._

Harry's cellphone went off and he growled lowly in the back of his throat. It was a trick he was playing on himself. Set as alarm to go off once a day to force him to get off the couch every now and again. Sometimes he ignored it, but it would get louder and louder as time passed, and he wasn't so far gone that he wanted to annoy the older woman in the apartment next door.

After blinking blearily up at the ceiling for several long moments Harry forced himself up, narrowly avoiding stepping on his forgotten glasses as he shuffled through to the kitchen.

_Why am I even doing this?_ He wondered, fishing his phone out of his messenger bag and turning the alarm off. _Why do I still bother?_

Because honestly? It would be so much easier to just give in to the emptiness, to find a demon that hated Crowley who Harry could beg death from – he didn't believe for one second he could kill himself, he wasn't that strong.

Voldemort was dead. That'd been all he wanted. Sure, starting over would have been nice, but he'd done what he wanted to do...

His morbid musings were interrupted by the doorbell. He was of half a mind to ignore it; he had every other time. But then the yelling started.

"Harry Evan Peverell I know you're in there! You had better open this door right now or I'm going to pick the lock!"

Completely shocked Harry dropped his phone to the floor, walked to the front door and, after undoing all the locks, threw it wide open.

In his doorway, bobby pin in hand, was Cassidy Butcher, his 43 year old neighbour. Normally he worried when she started showing off her lock-picking skills – Harry was pretty sure she was on the wrong side of the law – but today he just stared blankly at her.

Cassidy gave him a quick once-over, taking note of his appearance – wrinkled clothes, hair messier than normal, no glasses, massive black bruises beneath his eyes – and frowned deeply, scrunching her nose up in thought.

It wasn't hard to tell that he hadn't really left his apartment recently. There was mail stacked up next to the door, and Harry's face had gained a slightly more gaunt appearance, the sort one would associate with starvation. Bloodshot eyes could barely focus on her, and he hadn't bothered putting his glasses on, so he wasn't fussed about being _able_ to see, not more than necessary to manoeuvre around the apartment without walking into too many things.

Placing one hand on her hip Cassidy huffed, narrowed sky blue eyes, and gestured flippantly with the bobby pin. She might not be nearly as young as Harry, but boy was she stubborn.

"Turn around and go to bed." She demanded, squatting to collect Harry's abandoned mail, fixing him with her piercing gaze the entire time. Harry blinked down at her, uncomprehending. "Right now young man! Quick march!" Cassidy waved her hands at him, ushering him inside, and closed the door behind her.

* * *

Cassidy Butcher took an unexplained leave of absence from work and practically moved in to Harry's apartment, adamant that she would get him back to a healthier condition.

She essentially stood vigil over him for an entire month before she felt Harry's mental state was stable enough for her to leave him alone for long periods of time.

There had been one point during her stay when she walked in on Harry attempting to summon a demon – she hadn't wanted to ask what he was doing, but she knew it couldn't be healthy and so made a note of what he had gathered and hid the rest of it. Luckily for her none of the demons had been willing to respond to him – warned off by Crowley? – or she would have walked in on something a hundred times worse.

But with Christmas literally right around the corner Harry had suddenly snapped back to himself.

It wasn't that he was over it – far from it – but, at the very least, he believed Cassidy deserved a better Christmas gift than having to look after him over the holiday season. Acting like he felt better than he really did was a skill he had perfected long ago, and he was using it again now – for the first time in quite a while, since there hadn't been anyone to hide from for a long time.

"Come _on_ Dee," Harry whined good-naturedly as he watched Cassidy cook his obligatory 'healthy' meal of the day. "I'm _fine_. Didn't you say your little brother was going to be in town over Christmas? Spend some time with him; do your creepy research thing on his current girlfriend, _whatever_, just get out some."

"If Nathan brings his fiancée that's more of an argument for me to stay right where I am," She pointed out lightly, jabbing the knife she was currently using in Harry's direction to emphasise her point. Rolling his eyes Harry forced out a laugh – it felt hollow, but he pushed the thought to the back of his mind.

"Don't be mean Dee, Nathan's been dying to see you for ages."

"And how on Earth would you know that?"

"You're the one who gave him my phone number. He texts me incessantly when you're ignoring him. It's pathetic."

Cassidy smirked.

"Fine, I suppose I should spend some time with the family," She acquiesced, serving up the massive omelette on two plates. "But what are you going to do?"

"Cassidy, don't. You know I don't have any family, and no, I'm _not_ going to let you and Nathan drag me into your time together, it wouldn't be fair."

It wasn't that he didn't like Cassidy or Nathan; he did, he really did. But he'd managed to pull himself together enough to think clearly, even if he didn't feel right, and he couldn't possibly leave while she was still hovering around everywhere.

"Well, it you're sure..." She settled down across the table from Harry and started eating, somewhat subdued.

Harry smiled sadly at her, picking at his omelette. Cassidy was like the mother he'd never had – although she would hit him if she ever heard him say it, she didn't like thinking about her age – and Nathan was the cheery Uncle. His heart contracted painfully, and he knew he would miss them dearly once he was gone, but he just couldn't stay. There were too many bad memories haunting the place, and even if the ache never healed Harry knew that he didn't have a chance in hell of recovering mentally if he didn't get away from the 'scene of the crime'.

Harry didn't know, exactly, where he wanted to go, but he had to go soon, and he had to be quick about it. If Cassidy caught wind of what he was planning she wouldn't let him out of her sight ever again. Nothing good would come from further entrapment in his own home.

* * *

Nathan and his fiancée arrived in a flurry of activity, most of which Harry managed to avoid getting dragged into. He didn't manage to talk his way out of dinner on the 21st, but by then he was setting his plans in motion.

Because he knew Cassidy would be ridiculously busy, Harry bought tickets for a random flight to the US on the 24th December, Christmas Eve. While keeping under her radar Harry packed away all of the books scattered across his apartment in his magically expanded messenger bag. The few other possessions he wished to keep with him, along with the majority of his wardrobe, were thrown higgledy-piggledy into the suitcase he had bought to replace his very conspicuous school trunk.

That was the easy part.

Sneaking out to a taxi with his bags was going to be the real challenge.

Though it was only his first Christmas time in the apartment block, Cassidy had come to the understanding that he had no family – none who he kept in contact with anyway – so he knew he couldn't use that as an excuse as to why he was leaving. The best way would be to time it while she was out, but he couldn't change the time of the flight, so he'd have to make do with what he was given.

Dodging around Cassidy and Nathan over the last few days before Christmas Eve was more difficult than Harry had expected. If he actually stayed at home they tended to simply barge in – there was something odd about their family, everyone seemed to have a way with lock-picking – so he was actually forced to spend a larger amount of time out in London than he normally would have.

Wandering the streets of Surrey gave him time to think over his situation, even as he put his plan into action. He had no real plan of action once he was in the States. He figured he'd just drive around until he found somewhere that seemed like a good place to settle down.

There wasn't much else he _could_ do. He had no practical skills other than experience running a book store, so it hardly mattered where he ended up. Unless he figured out or bothered to open his own business somewhere he'd likely end up working at some convenience store somewhere – he didn't need to, but he'd definitely need something to keep him occupied during the day.

* * *

Christmas Eve rolled around quickly, with Harry caught between Nathan, Cassidy and the streets of Surrey. Being as covert as he possibly could, early on that morning Harry sneaked his things out of his apartment and into a waiting taxi.

Getting an early ride in and spending hours waiting at the airport was better than risking getting caught, and in the early afternoon Harry found himself on a plane to San Francisco, a whole world away from everything he knew.


	10. Hunters

**A/N: Hey everyone. This rather uninspired chapter comes to you from your somewhat distressed author. Perhaps, by this time next week I'll know what place I came in that script competition. I'll definitely have finished my Classics report, for better or for worse. Try and enjoy the chapter, anyway, and I'll try not to vent on you lot. By the by, I do have a facebook page, I can't remember if I've mentioned that before. If you want you can ask me questions and stuff on there blah blah**

* * *

**Chapter 10 – Hunters:**

_March 1999_

Okay, so maybe Harry's driver's license was fake – he hadn't had the time to get a legitimate one! - but it seemed like he could drive a hell of a lot better than some of the people on the highway. Experienced drivers too, not an L-plate in sight! It was almost as though every single person in the area either had somewhere really important that they had to get to, so they resorted to reckless speeding, or they were drifting aimlessly and driving ridiculously slowly.

Of course, it could just have been that Harry was feeling rather irritable as of late. He wasn't yet used to spending so much time driving, and there was still so much that he didn't _really_ understand about the muggle world, especially America. Not to mention he had stopped in at an internet café the day before and checked his emails.

In retrospect he should have expected it, but even after three months he was still being inundated with emails from Nathan and Cassidy wondering where he was, if he was alright etcetera etcetera. In his heart he knew he had no right to criticise them for worrying about him; he had, after all, simply up and disappeared on them. That's why, even though he never replied, he forced himself to read each and every single email they sent him.

They pained him, but at the same time it was still nice to know that someone out there cared for him (and with the occasional owl he noted that looked too much like a post owl for comfort, he had to hope that they never bumped into Remus, or he'd be doomed if they ever tracked him down).

Harry couldn't figure out what he wanted to do with his new life. Hell, he couldn't even decide where he wanted to live! He'd spent the last three months between the road and a handful of motels, never really staying any place for longer than a week. Nothing had appealed to him as of yet. There was a niggling part of him that said maybe he didn't want to settle down, because settling down meant getting a boring normal job, and that part of him that felt he needed to save people didn't approve of such a mundane option.

The problem there was that Harry didn't know how to save people any more. The most he could do would be exorcising demons, but only the stupid, low-level ones, and most people didn't believe in demons anyway, and he could hardly put an advert in the phonebook, "Harry Peverell, Demon Specialist".

Frustrated, Harry smacked the steering wheel of his car and bit his lip.

_What am I doing?_

Sometimes Harry wished he could just throw a dart at a map and go wherever it landed and just live there, but he knew he'd never be able to.

And that was why, though he was beginning to hate driving, he was still doing it.

If Harry was to be completely honest, he wasn't heading to Colorado because he thought he might be able to settle down there. No, there had been some weird stuff happening there lately, according to news, and so Harry was heading for Gunnison.

He shouldn't go near it, he knew he shouldn't. All he had were his books, a knife, and the gun he'd somehow managed to smuggle over from England. Just because he had them, however, didn't mean he was particularly proficient at _using_ either of them. Sure, if you pointed a gun at a wizard you'd likely get a pretty clean shot, experience or no, because they wouldn't know what it was and therefore wouldn't feel the need to move out of the way. Humanoid monsters though? They lived in the muggle world, not the magical. They weren't stupid. Harry's be more likely to kill some innocent bystander than actually get a hit in on anything that didn't want to be hit.

He felt so completely _useless_ without his magic...

_Damn. I managed not to think about it for almost two months... I suppose it was only a matter of time._

Harry was trying desperately hard not to think about the situation that led to his presence in America, but sometimes he slipped up. He hated feeling useless, and he hated that there was no-one he could blame but himself.

Freaking out had happened during his stay in Concord in January. When rational thought had finally broken through the 'holy-crap-I'm-empty' haze clouding his mind he'd taken a moment – make that four days – to sit back and ruminate on the possible consequences of his actions. _Why_ the _hell_ did he give his magic to a freaking _demon?!_ That was pretty bad planning, even for him.

There had been no thought of hesitation when he made the deal – hell, he wouldn't have minded if Crowley had wanted the regular old 'I'll-be-back-for-your-soul-in-ten-years' thing. He would have accepted even if Crowley had confessed to wanting his soul in a year rather than ten. At the time, anything was a fair payment for destroying Voldemort once and for all.

_King of the Crossroads you idiot!_

It was likely best for his sanity to not try and imagine what sort of atrocities Crowley might be able to commit with his magic (and that was a thought. Would his magical signature still come up on Ministry radars when it was in Crowley's possession? It would almost be funny to see Aurors try and take the demon on for using magic in front of muggles. Almost).

_Focus damn it!_

Sighing Harry grabbed his water bottle with one hand and gulped some down. He needed to stay focussed on what he was doing, rather than on the past, or he was going to crash.

* * *

Gunnison, Colorado was both different and completely the same as every other place Harry had been to. The moment he stepped foot in the town he knew he wouldn't stay for very long. It just wasn't right. Not to mention the weird vibe it gave off – though that might have been his imagination acting up because of the news reports.

Mentally exhausted Harry pulled his car into the parking lot of the first motel he came across and booked a room for a week. If no-one else came to check out the situation and he couldn't figure it out within a week then there was no point staying any longer anyway.

_Where did all my determination to do the right thing go?_

Ignoring his own pessimism Harry grabbed his suitcase and his messenger bag and lugged them to his new room. It was nothing fancy – motels never were, especially when you picked them at random – but it wasn't the worst place he'd ever stayed either. Far from it. The bed was in good condition, there were no mysterious stains on the carpet, the curtains or the wallpaper, and nothing appeared to be broken.

"Good enough," Harry exhaled, dropping his things on the ground inside the door, shutting said door behind him and flopping down on the bed. The one thing he liked about American motels was their obsession with big beds. At times like this it was a blessing in disguise.

He was asleep in minutes.

* * *

It was late evening when Harry awoke with a start. There was no real reason for it. No loud noises, no-one was breaking in to his room. Harry's 'sixth-sense' was so crap it was basically non-existent these days so it was nothing like that either. No, after spending so much time all over the place being up at all hours he had yet to adjust himself to lengthy periods of sleep.

Today that would become a useful thing.

As Harry wandered around his room making himself a cup of tea – he had yet to acquire a taste for coffee – he noticed someone crossing the car park in the dark. There was no hesitance in their stride, so they spent long periods of time wandering around in the dark – night-vision was an acquired skill.

Normally Harry wouldn't have paid it any attention – what business was it of his if some local teenager or what not sneaked out to a pub or something? But a focussed squint revealed a slight limp and a slightly hunched figure that wouldn't normally be present in someone that young. Not to mention they were actually leaving the motel, rather than just cutting across the parking lot.

That, combined with what he had been hearing about Gunnison – which, admittedly, wasn't much – spurred him into action. Suddenly glad he had fallen asleep in his clothes Harry poured the rest of his tea down the sink, grabbed his runic knife, shoved it down the side of his boot, grabbed his room key and slipped out of his room.

It took Harry several moments, after shutting his door, to relocate the figure in the dark. Something told him it probably wasn't such a good idea to follow someone in the dark like this, but he'd never paid much heed to those sorts of feelings. Almost everything he did was dangerous, so what difference did it make?

For a moment, as Harry followed the figure through the dark, he could have sworn he had been noticed. His mark had stopped and looked around, and Harry had frozen in his tracks. But nothing happened, other than a barely-noticeable irritable grunt.

It took another ten minutes of walking through the increasingly dark night for anything to happen. They had headed out of town, in the direction of the run-down old house Harry had vaguely noted on his way in. It hadn't seemed anything special at the time, in fact it had looked more than definitely abandoned and ready for demolition or something similar.

By passing through solitary streetlights Harry had managed to catch a better glimpse of the person he was tailing. He had been correct in his assumption that it wasn't some kid sneaking around. It was a man, much older than Harry's measly 18 years. He was dark-skinned, somewhat reminiscent of the ever-silent presence of the Slytherin, Zabini, and he held himself warily, as though expecting to be attacked at any moment, but he also looked war-hardy, like he would take anything that _did_ attack him head on and send them packing.

Part of Harry had started telling him to leave again shortly after seeing all this, but he couldn't bring himself to. This man, with all his harsh worldly experience, might have the answers to what was going on in Gunnison. That wasn't something he was going to give up on without a fight.

* * *

It was a long night full of new and unexpected revelations for Harry. For some reason, the man he had followed waited until _after_ Harry had witnessed him murdering every single person... _thing_... that resided in the run-down house to acknowledge him.

Now, Harry had never actually seen a vampire before, but he was pretty sure the vampires in Magical Britain didn't look anything like the vampires he had just encountered. These vamps had a whole mouth full of sharp, jagged fangs that made Harry's blood run cold.

Thank Merlin he hadn't gone after them himself. He would have been a goner.

"Now then," Harry's apparent saviour began in a gruff voice, wiping his blood-soaked blade down on a hanging curtain. "Who are you, what are you, and what do you want?"

Harry was dumbstruck. What was he? Well, he supposed, in whatever line of work the man obviously had, it might be quite a relevant question. Nervous, Harry ran his hand along his upturned jacket collar.

"I'm Harry," he paused for a moment, but figured there was no harm to be done, and added "Harry Peverell." It was his muggle name, so if the man turned out to just be a psychopathic murderer and wanted to track him down it would probably work, but it was still a heap safer than using his real name.

"And?"

"I, uh, I don't know what you want me to say, but I sure as hell ain't one of those... vampires?"

"But why are you _here_?"

"Ah... Well, you see, I was actually investigating _this_," Harry gestured to the decapitated vampires – and why were they having this conversation there? "Which is why I'm here in Gunnison. As to why I'm _here_, well, I saw you from my motel room and was a bit suspicious. Turns out I was right to be, but maybe for the wrong reason."

The man raised one dark eyebrow at him and stared him down.

"What?" Harry asked, more standoffishly than he would have liked.

"You haven't run away screaming, and you haven't fainted, or even tried to deny what you've seen. That's impressive kid. You've got guts."

"...Thanks?"

"So," he dusted off an old wooden chair and sat down, gesturing for Harry to do the same. "I can see you aren't from around here kid. You ever heard of hunters?"

Harry frowned, carefully taking a seat on something that didn't look like it would collapse under his weight and wasn't covered in blood.

"I'm assuming you don't mean people like deer hunters. I take it you're a hunter?"

"Yep. The name's Rufus. Seasoned hunter of the supernatural."

Harry's eyes widened and he took a moment to truly look at Rufus.

"You still haven't fled yet. That's surprising in someone your age. You don't seem like you've got any freaky vengeances, so what's your deal?"

Though Rufus asked, Harry could tell he didn't necessarily expect an answer. Which was good, because Harry didn't have one.

They talked long into the night, edging around personal topics and giving short, half-answers to others. They weren't there to make friends. But Harry did learn a thing or two about hunters.

If he had his information right, it was hunters who dealt with things like demons in the States.

Harry wasn't sure if he was cut out for the life of a hunter – he would certainly need some sort of training if that's what he wanted to do with himself – but he knew now where he could go to get more information. Rufus had mentioned some place in Nebraska that he had referred to simply as 'The Roadhouse', which was some sort of hunter bar.

Harry knew where he was going to head next.


	11. The Harvelles

**A/N: I'm sorry guys, you'll have to excuse the shortness of this chapter. I pretty much wrote all of it since coming home from school this afternoon since I've had a lot of shit going on this last week (school projects, not emotional stuff, so don't worry) and I normally write these chapters in bits and pieces (I have a short concentration span) but I haven't had the chance. But it's something, and I'll have to try extra hard on the next chapter to make it up to you.**

* * *

**Chapter 11 – The Harvelles:**

_**May 1999**_

Nebraska was a big place.

Harry stayed out his week in Gunnison, despite the mysterious older hunter moving on straight away. It had given him a chance to absorb what he had witnessed and heard. Of course, when it all sunk in, he couldn't resist delving into his books again, and making a long list in his journal about the differences between muggle and magical vampires. He'd have a lot of explaining to do to any hunter that came across his journal, but Harry was innately curious about the differences between similar creatures.

He already had a rather extensive section on ghosts and ghostly apparitions.

When his week in Gunnison ended Harry reluctantly packed away all of his research and headed off for Nebraska.

Harry wasn't afraid to say it again. Nebraska was massive. Looking for a single bar in a whole state with no other information save for the name was a lengthy task. Every single piece of civilisation he came across Harry would stop and hesitantly ask after the Roadhouse. It couldn't be completely off the grid, since Harry didn't imagine the come and go lifestyle of hunters to be all that good for business. Even so, it obviously wasn't very popular either.

'Under the radar'. It seemed like a good policy. Be average, don't stand out. Don't draw attention.

There were times, in Harry's cross-state journey, where he thought he might have stumbled across an in-progress hunt, but he never stuck around long enough to find out. As he was, Harry knew he wouldn't be of much use to them anyway, so it was better that he let them be.

* * *

It was quite by accident, really, when the frazzled teen finally stumbled across the Roadhouse.

Stumbled was the most accurate way to describe it.

All alone in a still fairly new place, with no-one watching over him, Harry had reverted to some of his more childish tendencies, ones ingrained in him by his time with the Dursleys – and boy, wouldn't they be celebrating his disappearance? Not eating for days on end was something his body was used to, but that by no means meant it was good for him.

Eventually, Harry had had no other choice than to pull over at the side of the road. There was a building not too far off, and Harry got out of his car, absently remembering to lock it behind him, and walked unsteadily towards it. Being weak and shaky from days without food, he collapsed in the dirt near the edge of the building and passed out.

* * *

When he woke he was sore everywhere. Phantom pains from the cruciatus raced up and down his legs. He had a massive headache, a combination of dehydration and a result of having hit his head on the ground.

The light burned at his eyes when he opened them, but he ignored the glare and instead simply glanced away from it, examining his surroundings.

Since he could no longer see the sky he deduced he was no longer outside, which he was glad for. He wasn't sure what might have happened to him if he'd been left out there for who-knows-how-long.

Then again...

Harry shot up, wincing as he had spun from the sudden movement. He wasn't outside any more. Who was to say he hadn't been kidnapped? He couldn't think of any plausible reason _why_ someone would kidnap a teenager from the side of the road, but it was still possible.

His mind was starting to panic, running through all the possible conclusions in his head. That was, until he heard the giggling.

Turning slowly, Harry swung his legs off of the couch he'd been lying on and _really_ looked at the room. Seated on a desk chair in one corner was a teenage girl, the source of the laughter. She seemed to find Harry's freak out rather amusing. Harry didn't. But he doubted he would have been kidnapped by a young teenager, so he let himself relax some.

"Ah," she started, taking a deep breath to stave off her giggles, "If I were a madman you would be dead already. You don't have very good survival instincts." The pause just before she said madman made Harry think she had been going to say something else, but he dismissed it. It wasn't important.

"Where am I?" Harry only barely avoided tacking 'kid' onto the end of his question, realising it would probably antagonise her. He himself had never been like that, but people around him at Hogwarts had been pretty uppity during fourth year, and that's about how old she looked.

Her dark eyes scrutinised him carefully for a moment, the silence an intimidating reminder that wherever they were, regardless of her age, he was essentially at her mercy.

"You're at the Roadhouse," she said finally, unfolding her arms and using her left hand to brush some of her blonde hair away from her face.

Harry blinked at her, uncomprehending.

"Where?"

"The Roadhouse," she sighed, slumping down in her chair and stretching her legs out in front of her, "The building you collapsed in front of?"

The Roadhouse...

"Like, the Hunter Roadhouse?"

The question slipped over Harry's tongue before he really had a chance to think it over, and he immediately clapped a hand over his mouth, watching her carefully to see what she would make of his exclamation.

"How do you know about that?" she asked, eyes narrowed in suspicion. "You're no hunter."

On a better day Harry might have at least feigned annoyance at the assumption, however correct it may be, but his head was killing him and he wasn't in the mood for a game of twenty questions.

"Rufus mentioned it." And before she had a chance to say anything else he asked "Do you think I could have some water? Only, I think I'm going to pass out again."

Still frowning at him, she climbed to her feet and left the room. Harry heard the distinct sound of a lock clicking in to place behind her, so he figured she didn't trust him to be alone now that he was awake.

* * *

When the blonde teen came back she was accompanied by an older woman, who thankfully had the glass of water Harry had requested. He took it from her wordlessly, nodding his thanks, and quickly drank it. It was blessedly cold, but had a slightly odd taste to it.

Harry rolled his eyes.

Of course they would give him holy water.

It wasn't a Hunter bar for nothing.

"Not a demon," he mumbled irritably, shoulders slumping in relief as the pounding in his head lessened to a more bearable level.

"I can see that," the woman commented drily, leaning against the wall and watching him closely. Harry just blinked blearily up at her, glass held loosely between his fingers, and she rolled her eyes.

"Jo, can you look after the bar for me for a while?"

The teen – Jo – scowled, glaring alternately at Harry and the woman, presumably her mother.

"Why? It's not like anyone's out there anyway."

"You know Gordon likes to pop in when you least expect him. Go out front."

Jo crossed her arms across her chest.

"No. I'm the one who found him outside. Even if he's not some demon, he's not a hunter, and he knew about this place. I want to know what's happening!"

"Joanna Beth you go out to the bar right this instant." The woman gestured pointedly at the door, her voice low and steady. It was the sort of voice Mrs Weasley would adopt when telling off the twins. Harry would have obeyed automatically, that sort of conditioning was hard to break out of.

Jo looked for a moment as though she would protest further, but then she spun on her heel and stomped out of the room.

"I'm sorry about her. She gets quite nosy sometimes. But I do need answers."

Harry nodded, leaning back against the couch.

"I suppose introductions wouldn't hurt then. My name's Ellen, and this here is my bar, the Roadhouse, which, as you already know, caters to hunters."

"Harry. And no, I'm really not a hunter." As he leaned forward to place the empty glass on the ground he finally noticed the absence of his things. They had been left in his car... "Is my car still out there?" he asked, trying not to freak out. His entire life was in that car, as sad as that might sound.

"Yeah, don't worry about it kid, it's still where you left it. You don't really get any car thieves out this way – they'd have to have walked all the way out here to bother, and no-one does that."

"That's a relief..." Taking a deep breath Harry launched into a censored retelling of his last few months in America. This was where he wanted to be, and he needed them to trust him if he was going to gain anything from being here. Someone needed to know his story, even if it was far from all of it.

* * *

**To Brynchilla:**

**I have to admit that I desperately want to put that sort of magical world/Crowley interaction in there, because it would be really funny, but it wouldn't be for a little while. It's still too soon. With the magical signature thing, it might be a bit of a mixture, depending on how I end up having Crowley adapt it for his own use.**

**As for Harry's driving, he was on his learners and taking lessons and stuff back in England, but he really just didn't have the time to finish it before he left, so he had the Goblins fake him up a license.**

**I'm glad you like it, and I hope you stick around :) **


	12. Life at the Roadhouse

**A/N: Yo. Well, today's "Holy crap it's Tuesday already" writing spree really pushed the limit. I was like no, I'm definitely going to get this done, no matter what. On the bright side, after the last chapter you guys broke 100 reviews and 400 alerts :) Happy happy**

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**Chapter 12 – Life at the Roadhouse:**

Ellen Harvelle was not as quick to trust as Harry had hoped she would be. Admittedly, it was to be expected, considering the circles she ran in, but Harry was beginning to feel a bit suffocated by her silent distrust. He'd shared his story with her, the nitty-gritty details minus the magic and Crowley, and it was pretty easy to tell he wasn't lying, it was too difficult for him to tell it without emotion.

No-one was that good an actor. No-one would _bother_ trying that hard just for the trust of one bartender.

He was essentially under some form of house arrest. It wasn't that he had any desire to leave the Roadhouse anyway, but he got the distinct feeling he wouldn't be allowed to. Wherever he went there was always someone keeping an eye on him, be it one of the come-and-go patrons who were apparently of the more trusted variety, or the fourteen year old Jo lurking around corners. It was unsettling, and it meant he could only read the same three books from his messenger bag when he was out of his room, because any more would cause suspicion. There simply wasn't enough room in any of his luggage, or his car, for him to have secreted away so many different books.

On the plus side, after seeing the books Harry had chosen to look through, Jo had become remarkably warmer towards him. Not so much, he suspected, because she wanted to read, but because of what they were about. She wanted to learn more about the supernatural world, just like Harry did. He suspected there was some deeper motive for her, but he wasn't going to pry. Harry knew better than most about secrets.

"Where did you _get_ those from?" Jo asked one afternoon, peering over his shoulder as Harry sat at one of the tables near the back of the bar, trying to avoid the attention of too many hunters.

"I bought them when I was back home in England. It took a heck of a lot of research to find them, but I think it was worth it."

Jo hummed lightly and shifted again, squinting at a small section of text beneath a diagram.

"Can I borrow one of them?"

Harry paused, one finger drumming against the tabletop. It was an innocent enough question, asked in a casual, off-handed way, but Harry was unsure of whether to grant it. True, he had seen Jo hanging around with some of the hunters who stopped by, had even stumbled across her training in weapons with Gordon, who was about his age, apparently very young for a hunter. And yes, at fourteen she was old enough to decide what she wanted to read.

It was the look he sometimes caught on Ellen's face when she saw her daughter with the other hunters that held Harry back. He didn't want to say 'ask your mother' because he had only just managed to get on Jo's good side, and saying that would instantly ruin all the progress they had made. On the other hand, regardless of whether anyone else could tell, he could see the pain in Ellen's gaze as she watched Jo. He had to decide who it was safer to risk annoying.

"Maybe later," he said eventually, pushing the matter off to one side for the time being. "I'm not sure I'm ready to let them out of my sight just yet."

Jo huffed, a brush of warm air across Harry's neck, as she pulled away and straightened up, crossing her arms. She was quite obviously unsatisfied, but at least she wasn't complaining. It was a good sign. At least, he hoped it was.

"You're a weakling," Jo exclaimed suddenly, shoving Harry's shoulder.

Harry turned halfway in his seat and stared up at her, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. That was no secret. Harry knew he was weak.

"What's your point?"

"Well," Jo stared straight at Harry defiantly. "You should come train with me. Even though I bet I could beat you with my hands tied behind my back."

Harry considered her silently, green eyes narrowed in suspicion behind his glasses.

"What do you mean by training?" Sure, Harry knew she was good with weapons – frighteningly so for someone her age – but that didn't mean he could easily suffer the indignation of being taught how to fight by someone nearly five years younger than him.

Shocked out of her flow, Jo paused for a moment, humming thoughtfully. She sized him up, nodding to herself. It was unnerving.

"Come on a run with me tomorrow morning."

Harry's eyebrow quirked up in amusement at Jo's demanding tone and dismissive attitude. So as long as Jo said it was okay he could go outside? It was a curious notion, but he supposed he'd still be under observation that way.

"Alright."

Harry would soon come to regret agreeing to Jo's workout routine. The girl was fit and ruthless.

* * *

"What are you always reading over there?"

Harry was curled up in a corner booth out in the main bar area almost a month later, exhausted yet again from one of Jo's gruelling runs, _A Ghostly Encyclopaedia_ spread open on the table in front of him. The name alone would have sent most people running in the other direction, but sometimes the phoniest sounding things had the best tid-bits of information in them. He'd noticed Ellen's gaze shift from suspicious to curious over time, but she had yet to confront him about what it was he actually did.

Wordlessly, still trying to calm his racing heart – Jo was probably laughing her head of somewhere with Gordon, who had dropped by yet again just the day before – Harry flipped the book closed, keeping his finger between the pages as a bookmark.

"Well then," Ellen whistled, arching an eyebrow at him, "Looks like you really know your stuff after all. What exactly is it that you _do?_'

It really had only been a matter of time before she asked that. Harry didn't appear to _do_ anything, but he paid for whatever he could get her to accept, and his card certainly wasn't going to be declining any time soon.

"I read," Harry shrugged tiredly, flipping the book open again as though to demonstrate. "Study. Memorise. You know about the demon problem back home; I suppose I hoped that if I knew what was going on then I might be better equipped to deal with it all."

"But you don't hunt?"

That was a given, seeing that the only time Harry really left the Roadhouse was on fitness excursions with Jo.

"No. I'm a bit too scrawny to be a hunter, don't you think? I haven't got the physical capability to really deal with too much." He'd always been scrawny and he always would be. It was an accepted fact in his life.

"You know, kid, no-one ever said that the only way to fight those buggers was to be a hunter."

Harry tilted his head back, gazing up at the older woman. Sure he had a treasure trove of books, but what good was that to anyone else?

"Jeez..." Ellen shook her head fondly. "For someone who spends so much time with their head buried in books, you can be kinda thick sometimes. You ever take a real good look at any of the hunters who stop by here? They're more of the shoot first ask questions later persuasion; in other words, they aren't necessarily the brightest people around. Sure, they know the basics, they wouldn't be able to kill anything otherwise, but there's so much more out there than most of them know how to deal with."

"So...?"

Harry's mind was coming up blank. His brain was foggy with exhaustion, and he was sure he'd beat himself up over acting so dumb when he was more awake, but he just... couldn't be bothered actually thinking.

"Hey now! Don't you go falling asleep on me while I'm trying to give you life advice!" Ellen's hand darted out and she shook Harry's shoulder, jerking him aware again.

"Can we have this talk later?" Harry asked lazily, eyes heavy as he stared upwards. Ellen rolled her eyes.

"Sure. Just keep it in mind. And maybe you should ask Jo to go easier on you, she'll run you into the ground permanently at this rate."

Harry didn't respond. He was already asleep.

* * *

David was a reasonably young guy, maybe 28, and he'd started frequenting the Roadhouse between jobs just after Harry himself arrived. He was pretty new to the hunting-sphere, but despite being a newbie he seemed to be doing pretty well for himself. At least, that's what Harry gathered.

Eventually Harry had gotten sick of the three books he had on rotation, and switched them out for several others, hoping that no-one called him up on it. No-one did.

One day in mid-August Harry was adding a collection of symbols to his journal from one of his more runic texts when David dropped into a seat across the table, peering oddly at him. Harry glanced up at him through his glasses, pen hovering above the page as he tried to suss out what was happening.

"Umm... Can I help you?" He eventually asked, giving up on trying to out-stare the man. The patrons of the Roadhouse didn't usually interact with him, other than Gordon, but that was mainly Jo's fault. It was an off-putting change of pace. He didn't really like surprises.

"I... Hmm..." David shifted uncomfortably under Harry's scrutiny, scratching the back of his head. Finally he visibly pulled himself together – Harry mentally scoffed, a grown man, afraid of him? Reaching into his pocket he pulled out a crumpled sheet of paper and put it on the table in front of Harry, trying awkwardly to smooth it out some when Harry just stared at it.

"You... ah... Do you know what this symbol means?"

Harry straightened up from his slouch and grabbed the picture, bringing it up to his face. He immediately recognised it as demonic, but wasn't surprised that David had no idea what was what. Even if he _did_ know a thing or two about demons, which Harry doubted, it wasn't the basics. It wasn't even a demonic sigil, as such. Instead, it was more like a signature – phantom fire rippled across the mark on his neck and he forced himself not to think about it. It wasn't a demon he-

No. Wait.

Squinting, Harry turned the page sideways, ignoring the finger-tapping happening across from him. Impatient hunters.

No, he _did_ recognise that. Surprisingly. He hadn't thought it real, at the time, but it matched.

Gaap. A demon noble from a side faction down in Hell. Depending on what she wanted, it was probably bad news.

"Well?"

Harry glanced up over the edge of the paper at the impatient exclamation. Ellen had been right; all muscle, no brains.

"This is Gaap's symbol." Harry told him, pushing the paper back across the table. "Apparently she's a handful, but she's cautious. As far as I can tell she's had the same body for the last 400 years. She's not someone you should take lightly."

David rolled his eyes and stood up suddenly, leaving without so much as a 'thank you'.

For a moment Harry was miffed. But then he realised he had just put his ridiculous knowledge to actual, practical use. Had that been what Ellen had been talking about?

Harry was pretty sure he could cope with ungratefulness if he could actually be useful for once.

* * *

**Hey, if there was anyone who's review I was meant to respond to (anonymous ones) then I'm sorry, you'll have to forgive me, it's late and I'm really tired right now.**


	13. John Winchester

**A/N: Hey everyone. Sorry if this doesn't flow quite right, I spent two days in Christchurch between the first and second half of the chapter so...  
Anyway. I've decided that even if I don't achieve anything else in my lifetime, I can at least look back on this story and say that I made 471 strangers (and counting) smile. That's got to count for something, right?**

* * *

**Chapter 13 – John Winchester:**

Time passed by rather quickly at the Roadhouse, and before he knew it Harry's 20th birthday had come and gone. Life was never dull there, even when nothing was happening. At the Roadhouse Harry was accepted for who he was – a young man with an obsession with collecting knowledge and a memory bank that could help with just about any problem a Hunter could have. It was the first time in his life that he felt like he truly fit in somewhere.

Sure, when he had magic and attended Hogwarts he had initially felt like he fit in there, because he was with people who shared his abilities and wouldn't call him freak for using them. But that didn't mean he _fit in._ He was worshipped, idolised and hated all at once for something he couldn't remember. That wasn't fitting in, being one of many but at the same time an individual; that was being in the spotlight.

It had taken him a while to be able to distinguish between the two. At the tender age of 11 anyone who was nice to him was a blessing, regardless of their motivations. What kind of attention-starved kid worries about the hows and whys of friendship?

Here and now, he was accepted by everyone. Sure, maybe it took some time, and a few threats from the now 15 year old Jo, for some of the newer hunters to warm up to him, but Harry actually saw that as a _good_ thing. It meant that even if they had heard about him on the grape vine that they weren't willing to believe everything they heard, and wanted to check him out for themselves. To be honest, it was that _lack_ of instantaneous trust that Harry liked the most. It was the complete opposite of the hero-worship he had so often found himself subjected to back in Britain. It made it very hard for him to regret leaving.

"Harry, you lazy sob, come on! I'm not letting all my hard work go to waste because you can't be bothered practising!" He wouldn't miss Jo's training regime though, he thought to himself as he forced himself out of his seat. He might be bloody fit now, but the girl was a hard task-master.

* * *

John Winchester was a name that got tossed around a lot amongst the hunters at the Roadhouse. Harry had only ever heard bits and pieces along the grape vine; the man had never stopped by in person in all the time he had spent there.

It was through the absolutely-not-a-gossip-circle gossip circle of hunters that Harry learned several things about the elusive man; one, that his wife was dead – murdered, by some supernatural beast or another – and two, that he hunted with his two sons. Harry wasn't sure how to feel about the man raising his sons like that, but seeing as he hadn't had the most conventional childhood either he felt like he had no real grounds on which to judge the man. At least he hadn't ditched his kids with some ungrateful relative, or an orphanage. That would have made Harry significantly less inclined to offer aid if it were to be asked of him; he'd done it before, refused to help a hunter that pissed him off some way or another.

He didn't know any dates or specifics about John Winchester; for all he knew his wife could have died last year and his kids could be under ten!

There was nothing concrete in Harry's well of knowledge until one day in November of 2000.

* * *

"For gods sake Jo, just go annoy Shawn or something! You bloody well twisted my ankle yesterday when I agreed to spar with you, and I won't be doing it again any time soon." Harry shifted gingerly on the spot where he stood awkwardly, hovering over Jo as she glared up at him. Gordon had been on a hunting spree without breaks for over a month now, and she was impatient. Though Harry was barely an adequate training partner he'd still been roped in to help, and it hadn't turned out well at all. Of course, Jo wasn't one to take no for an answer; a twisted ankle wasn't her idea of an excusable injury either – and it wouldn't be, for a regular hunter, but Harry wasn't a hunter goddamnit, he shouldn't have to follow the same expectations.

"Jeez, you're such a pain!" She complained, eyeing his ankle sceptically as Harry tried to keep his weight off of it as much as he could. He almost cracked a smile at her attitude – 'pain' was hardly the worst thing she could have said to him.

"Yes yes, I know. Now go and save Shawn from morning alcoholism." Harry made shooing motions with his hands and cracked a smile when she rolled her eyes and stalked off, dragging the older man off of his bar-stool. Spinning carefully on the spot Harry walked slowly over to his regular corner booth, expression blank as he tried to walk with as little limp as possible; it wouldn't do to 'exaggerate' his injury in front of the hunters, who would all tease him mercilessly for it.

Thankfully no-one ever questioned where Harry got all of his books from, because he no longer bothered trying to keep small circulations of visible texts going when he was in the public eye.

Harry sat in uninterrupted silence for over an hour, flipping aimlessly through an older Latin text that he truthfully only understood about half of. Despite his knew reputation hunters preferred trying to make it on their own rather than blatantly asking for help, especially from someone as young as Harry. He understood their reluctance. It sucked and it made his days rather monotonous when no-one was willing to ask for his assistance, but nevertheless he always ensured he appeared available, just in case.

Today his 'just-in-case' policy turned out to be for the best.

Halfway through the day – Shawn was the only hunter around that day, so Harry had been alone in the main section of the Roadhouse for hours – the doors swung open, admitting an older man Harry had never seen before in his life. Ellen was either out back in her office doing stock-take or some such administrative thing, or she was watching over Shawn and Jo's sparring match/lesson – Jo had stamina like no other, and they would be going for hours more as long as no-one forced them to stop.

Generally when caught in similar situations they were Roadhouse regulars, and Harry would ignore them and they him while they either went hunting for Ellen or sneaked themselves a beer from behind the bar – he always took note of them and told Ellen later, there was no point in her being out of pocket because of petty thievery. This was different.

For a moment Harry simply watched the newcomer from his shadowed position, not easily seen directly from the doorway because of the positioning of the various lights and the pool table. He went apparently unnoticed – though in all probability he was simply deemed not dangerous – by the newcomer as they swept their gaze across the bar. They were slightly fidgety – not noticeably so, but Harry could see, had practise seeing, the subtle nuances in his stance that indicated his restlessness.

Decision apparently made for him – Harry never had perfected that useful skill of indifference – Harry raised his right hand into the air slightly, drawing the stranger's attention back to him, and called flatly "Ellen's a bit busy right now, if that's who you're looking for."

The man walked further into the bar, keeping his frame angled towards Harry as he moved, eyes flickering backwards and forwards as though confirming his story.

"Who are you then?"

Harry frowned lightly at the blunt question, tapping his uninjured foot on the floor. It was a pretty standard question for newbies when they encountered him, but it just came out harsher from him.

"I'm Harry. I, ah, well... I live here." Harry gestured awkwardly around him, eventually dropping his hands onto the table and fiddling with the edge of his current reading book instead.

"I see."

Everything that came out of the man's mouth had an extra level of gruffness to it that made it sound angry and suspicious – although it likely _was_ both those things.

"Is there anything I can help you with?" Harry offered, trying to remain polite in the wake of who could possibly be _the_ most intimidating character Harry had ever met.

A searching look ensued, followed by the barest twitch of shoulders before he settled himself in the seat opposite Harry, leaning back in the chair.

"Do you know anything about the situation in Valentine?"

Harry blinked. He didn't even know where Valentine _was_; he was hardly a walking atlas.

"I don't have a computer, and we hardly get the newspaper delivered here." He did however have a cellphone now, due to nagging from Jo and certain hunters about wanting to be able to contact him when they weren't nearby.

The man sent him a look that seemed to scream 'imbecile' or 'pathetic', before reaching into the inside pocket of his jacket and pulling out a thick notebook, full of loose bits and pieces. He placed it on the table between them and began flicking through it, but not before Harry caught a glimpse of the name written on the inside cover.

John Winchester.

That was a surprise Harry hadn't seen coming. For one, the man was alone, and for having avoided the Roadhouse for such a long time he wasn't exactly the first person you'd expect to rock up out of the blue.

The journal was thrust into his immediate line of sight and Harry huffed out an irritated breath, pushing his glasses up his nose.

There were numerous newspaper clippings: mysterious deaths, disappearances, even vandalism – strange, ritualistic graffiti and destruction. It didn't sound like anything good was happening in Valentine anyway. Dismissing the deaths and disappearances for the time being – he still hadn't gotten the hang of identifying possible causes of death from physical wounds – he picked up one of the grainy newspaper images of the new graffiti. Most of it he ignored, classifying it as some sort of gang paraphernalia – he didn't understand people any more.

Some of it did give off a supernatural vibe to Harry, but he couldn't immediately recognise anything; it was as though they were mangled or altered somehow. Depending on what was there who knew what sort of untoward effect altering the symbols might have.

"I'm not sure..." Harry muttered, frowning. Reaching under the table he pulled his own notebook out of his bag and set it down next to John's, flipping it open to the next blank page. With painstaking precision – he'd gotten a lot better at copying complex symbols over the years – he reproduced all of the symbols in the pictures before placing them back in John's journal and pushing it back across the table to him.

"I've already got a fairly good idea of what's doing everything, but some of that stuff might make getting rid of it more complicated than normal." John confessed, tucking his journal away again.

Harry nodded absently, already running through his mental book list to try and think what books might be able to help him study the symbols.

"I agree. Symbology can be a dangerous thing when used wrong – or rather, when used _right_."

John lifted an eyebrow at Harry's absent response, not expecting him to say anything.

"I see. Well, if you find anything important let me know." Ripping Harry's journal and pen from his hands John scribbled down a number on the next page, ignoring the indignant squawk Harry let out. "Would you tell Ellen I dropped by?"

Harry nodded, clutching his journal tightly once John finished writing.

Without another word, John Winchester left the Roadhouse.

Harry stared after him, before delving straight into his books. He wasn't going to disappoint the man.


	14. That Damned Hero Complex

**A/N: Hey everyone. My host sister has been doing a good job of scaring the crap out of me in regards to my upcoming exchange. If, coincidentally, any of you lot happen to live in or very near to Querceta, Tuscany, well, please be nice to me when I get there.**

**On another note, forTheLoveOfHades was my 500th follower, and I feel like that's a pretty special milestone, so if you have a story request or something I suppose you can PM me and I'll see what happens. Otherwise, just thanks I guess.**

**Chapter 14 – That Damned Hero Complex:**

For some reason or another, Ellen was more surprised by the fact that John Winchester had actually spoken to Harry than the mere fact that he stopped by. According to her it was "about time" he passed through Nebraska again. Harry didn't stick around for any reminiscing; as soon as he'd seen Ellen and passed on the message he'd headed straight for his room, intent on sequestering himself away from the world in there until he figured out what it was John had showed him, what it meant, and how it could be dealt with. He didn't always get that hyped up when doing research for someone else, often-times he'd remain out in the open, tucked away in his booth, still open to other side-projects as he worked on and off again.

Ellen knew better than to try and talk him out of it; Jo was still learning. She didn't understand the obsession Harry had developed with knowledge – he barely understood it himself, except now that he was free from manipulations he found he had a need to _know_ everything, so he wouldn't be caught unawares again. On Ellen's orders Jo would bring food to him in his room twice a day – if he wanted lunch he was supposed to get it himself, a sort of incentive to leave his room for half an hour or so, but he more often simply went without – and every now and again the fifteen year old would huff and sigh and try and figure him out from the doorway, always resulting in a half-hearted training request, which would either be shot down or ignored entirely.

Harry wasn't trying to be harsh or anything; his research and his "stuffy old books", as Jo had once called them, were just more important to him than some time spent getting his ass kicked by a teenage girl.

It took him an entire week in seclusion, sleeping for short hours and at odd times, only enough to keep himself from collapsing, to figure out what was what and come up with a theory and a conclusion for everything in Valentine.

The graffiti was actually fairly straightforward, if you ignored the modifications. They were your regular, everyday spirit summoning sigils. Some for summoning, some for retaining, some for exaggerating emotional features of the spirit – what better way to make a violent poltergeist than by raising someone with anger management issues?

They were the sorts of things that anyone could get their hands on if they looked in the right places.

It took him the better part of five days to identify the modifications made to the sigils though. They turned out to be bastardised demonic sigils; the workings of a spiteful, or potentially very bored, witch. Either the witch in question was incredibly powerful, or they had found themselves a demon master with way too much time on their hands who was actually willing to teach them how to incorporate their demon-bred magic into regular sigils.

So John Winchester was dealing with a witch, or a coven of witches, or a witch and her demon.

Despite it being rather hypocritical of him Harry had a fierce aversion to the thought of someone selling themselves to a demon like that. Magic wasn't that important to life, it was nowhere near an essential thing, and their magic couldn't even do half the things his could – used to be able to – not to mention they needed preparation and specific ingredients. It wasn't worth it. How they had been allowed to spread was something Harry, if he wasn't trying to stay on the down-low, would definitely have brought up with the American Ministry of Magic.

Either way, one week after secluding himself from the world, Harry had called up John and explained about his theories and how he suggested John go about undoing all of the summonings etcetera. John was, apparently, a man of few words, and all Harry really got were some positive sounding grunts – at least he hoped they were positive – and a grumbled thanks before the man hung up on him.

He hadn't been expecting anything better; most hunters didn't seem to like expressing emotions.

Secretly – he'd never say it out loud for fear of a beat-down – that was why he was scared for Jo. Though she'd never admit to it herself, she was an emotional girl. He didn't think she could handle the real world. Hell, _he_ could barely handle the real world, and his life had been shit from the beginning.

With his work done Harry forced himself out into the open once more, and silently hoped that John, like most of his begrudging clients, would heed his request to let him know when it was all over and done with. It was a not-so-irrational need to know that he hadn't sent anyone to their deaths.

* * *

Two weeks later and it was the middle of December.

Harry had taken to sitting his phone on the table beside him, the volume turned way up.

He'd taken on one case in the two weeks. One case that hadn't taken him more than a day to figure out. It had been for some 30-something year-old newbie hunter, who had more than happily rang him on it's completion the day after, singing his praises in a hunter-esque way, which was something along the lines of saying that he'd call if he ever needed more help.

One grateful hunter was no nerve-soother for the lack of contact from another.

"What the hell are you playing at John Winchester?"

Generally Harry was a pretty patient guy – which was surprising, considering all the patience he had been forced to expend during the first seventeen years of his life – but there were some things he just couldn't deal with.

Ignoring any and all protests from various people at the Roadhouse Harry packed a bag and left, seventeen days after his last point of contact with Winchester.

* * *

Harry still hadn't gotten the hang of reading maps, so it took him longer than it should have to get to Valentine. Every single second spent on the road only served to heighten the tension he felt running through his body. It was a morbid adrenalin.

He had no idea what he was getting into; he could be making a big deal out of nothing, because Ellen had made a point to tell him about how unreliable John was with contacting people. The case could be over and done with. There was also the possibility that something truly disastrous had happened, something beyond either of their expectations of the case. Sure, Harry would _like_ for it to be the first option, but how realistic was that hope?

Upon arrival Harry didn't bother trying to find a motel; he wanted to get to the bottom of the whole thing as quickly as possible and then get the hell out of town. This was one of the few situations when he seriously missed his own magic – it would make everything a million times simpler if he could just use a point me charm to locate John.

Pulling over in a quiet street Harry abandoned his car and decided to check the streets on foot. He had his somewhat trusty knife strapped to his ankle inside his boot, and the gun he was still rather iffy about using was tucked away in a borrowed holster under his jacket. He even had his wand strapped to his leg, despite the fact he couldn't use it. It was actually the first time he had looked at it since the ordeal with Crowley, but it was a comforting weight nonetheless.

Forcing his mind back, Harry tried to remember where the crime-scenes had been. Though he was no longer capable of using magic, he'd found, through his very limited exposure to actual wizards and witches, that he could still sense their presence – not to the extent that he used to be able to; he could no longer identify individual magical signatures, or even detect the spiritual presence of muggles, but he could still tell if a person had his sort of magic. On the whole in his day to day life it was hardly a useful skill to have retained, but he never knew when it might come in handy.

Surprisingly enough, though Harry certainly wasn't expecting it, there _was_ some magical residue scattered across the town. He wasn't sure if it was relevant to the situation at hand, because why on earth would a proper wizard bother with demonic magic and sigils? But it wouldn't hurt to keep tabs on any magical people he stumbled across so, with nothing else to go on for his search without asking any locals, which would really have to wait until tomorrow morning because it was far too late for door-knocking, Harry followed the path to the strongest concentration which, theoretically, would be their house.

Harry supposes it's his ridiculous dumb luck that no-one is home when he gets there, and there are no locking or monitoring charms on the front door. It isn't even locked well – Harry's lock-picking skills are abysmal, but he manages to jimmy it open without much effort – which is odd, because Harry knows from experience that magical people tend to like their privacy.

Shrugging off the ominous feeling that something is seriously off, Harry slips inside the house anyway. It's fairly normal – muggle normal too, not wizard – two-story, a spread of mess that gives off a 'lived in' feel rather than one of laziness. There's a pile of mail on the bench in the kitchen – oddly convenient, but Harry doesn't ponder it for long. There are at least two people living in the house – maybe more, it's certainly large enough.

Checking his watch and glancing out the window Harry then proceeded up the stairs, checking briefly in all of the rooms. Mostly there was nothing out of the ordinary; except for the one room that reeked of magic, and another that had strange symbols woven into a dream-catcher that hung in the window. They were too delicate and small for Harry to identify, but it was enough to suspect that perhaps the witch they were dealing with lived with the mysterious magic user.

Of course, it was a Harry was examining that particular room that someone decided to arrive home. That was just how his brand of luck worked; he really should have seen it coming.

"Fuck."

There was no time for him to attempt an escape unless he wanted to jump out the second story window, which really wasn't something he wanted to try any time soon; his body wasn't made for that sort of abuse. There was the closet he had been looking through, but it was packed to the brim with clothes and there was no chance he would be able to squeeze himself into it without being frightfully conspicuous. Crossing his fingers and praying for the best Harry positioned himself behind the door and hoped to hell that whoever was home wouldn't be coming into this bedroom.

Heavy footsteps trekked up the stairs and down the hallway, and Harry's heart was beating loudly against his ribcage, but the foreign feet kept moving, past Harry's hiding spot and further into the house, before a door slammed somewhere deeper in, and Harry could breath again.

They hadn't noticed that the lock was broken, so Harry assumed it was the wizard – he was too strung-out to check, fearing it might garner the other's attention.

This was not good. This was very, _very_ not good.

Emerald eyes darted around the room from his not-very-inventive hiding place, scanning for any obvious details, anything he might have missed before, gearing up to get the hell out of that house. There was a draw that was partially open in the desk. Peeking around the edge of the door Harry checked the hallway, deeming it safe before racing over to the desk and yanking it open. Despite it being a bad idea he grabbed everything inside the draw. With it all gathered rather haphazardly in his arms Harry took a deep breath, steeled himself, and ran as silently as he could down the stairs and out the door.

Harry ran for three blocks without stopping; he'd never been more grateful for Jo's marathon morning training sessions. His heart was pounding so heavily he feared it would burst out of his chest – it was a rational fear, who knows what he could have unknowingly been cursed with. Collapsing on the pavement Harry took a moment to actually look at what he had taken.

A folded, torn, crinkled map, and a journal.

Sighing harshly he flipped the journal open the most recent entry: yesterdays. The writing was a little hard to decipher – all girly and loopy and linked, like calligraphy – but he eventually manages to pick apart enough to get a fairly decent understanding of what's written there in blue ink.

"_... the hunter is a fierce one. I only managed to knock him out for a short while. Thankfully Master was the one who actually locked him up, I would never have been able to. The charms on the room help too. He won't be making it out alive..._"

Startled, Harry back-tracked, flipping back though the pages, but the next most recent entry was from a week ago. Who knows what that meant. John – it had to be John, he hadn't mentioned any other hunters being up in Valentine – could have been locked up for that entire week, or the crazy chick might only have managed to capture him the day before. Either way it was bad news.

The map had a bunch of red circles on it – wow, obvious much? Most of them corresponded with either crime scenes or areas John had pointed out for their sigils. Then there were two others. The house – what, was she going to forget where she lived? – and some storage shed across town.

Had Harry ever mentioned how much he loved stupid people? Sometimes they just made his life so much easier.

Now Harry hadn't slept in at least 30 hours, and he was completely exhausted, but if there was one trait he couldn't seem to shake off it was his 'saving-people thing', as Hermione had so affectionately dubbed it. John Winchester was a part of his life now, even if they had only been together for all of ten minutes – Harry still dedicated a week of his life to the man, so that had to count for something – and Harry didn't like letting people die when he thought he could do something to prevent it.

And he didn't want to think about the guilt that would crush him when, eventually, he remembered that John was a father and had kids who were then fatherless, all because he didn't act on his gut feeling and offer a helping hand, even if it was likely to be rejected.

* * *

It was some ridiculous hour of the very early morning when Harry reached the storage shed marked on the map. He was running off of pure adrenalin at that point, and fully expected to pass out the moment the danger had passed – possibly sooner if he wasn't careful.

The exterior had this incredibly run-down look to it, so much so that most people wouldn't dare to venture inside for fear of structural damage and imminent collapse. A perfect hiding spot.

Harry was almost 100% sure that he had passed by the witch on the way there, so theoretically John should be the only person inside the building – unless she really did have her demon on watch duty, which was a whole other issue. It wouldn't be wise for Harry to be around a hunter and a demon at the same time.

Armed with a false confidence he didn't really feel at all Harry went through the front door, feet obnoxiously loud against the concrete.

Surprisingly – or not so, Harry could never be sure any more – the top level was actually being used for storage. Not that he believed that the witch actually owned any of it, most of it seemed as though it had been salvaged from a scrap heap. An effective guise for anyone who did brave the exterior to check out the inside.

It took a good ten minutes of searching to find the trapdoor that led underground to a rather pathetic holding cell. Yes, there were markings and sigils carved everywhere you looked, just like the journal had said, but they didn't mean anything. The demon was just having a laugh at the witch's expense. John was also unconscious, which Harry supposed was actually a good thing, because the man wouldn't have been impressed with all the noise Harry had been making upstairs. Hunting just wasn't his thing, he hadn't really gotten the whole subtlety thing down yet.

"Well well well, someone decided to come after the hunter after all." A feminine voice echoed throughout the room, and Harry suddenly found himself face to face with a red-eyed woman. Crossroads demon. Of course. Bored of regular deals, switching her position to someone else for a time, having a laugh at the stupidity of the human race.

"Yeah." Harry replied somewhat breathlessly, stunned, though he shouldn't have been. She eyed him carefully, scrutinising.

"Oh, this is interesting." She grinned, an intrigued, malicious grin. Of course she bloody well knew who Harry was; what freaking demon didn't? "I so wish I could just kill you now, the others would be so jealous, but unfortunately the boss wouldn't be too pleased about that. He's got an eye on you. Always."

Always? Crowley had been watching him? Harry would have thought Crowley would have been too caught up in whatever he had managed to make of Harry's stolen magic to bother with watching over him – and was that in a guardian-angel sort of way or just a 'I wonder what he's up to' way? Or was Harry like a pet-project sort of thing now?

"So, um..." Harry scratched the back of his head awkwardly, taking a step or two away from her overbearing presence.

"You're here for the hunter, correct?" She asked, surprisingly friendly. Harry didn't like it, but then again who was he to complain if the demon decided she wanted to screw over someone that _wasn't_ him?

"Yes..."

"Take him then. He hasn't done anything worth my attention. Besides, Heather's reaction will be most amusing once she returns to find him gone. Her skills with magic are dreadful, but she does make up for it in entertainment value."

Harry had never been so confused in his life. But, with a free ticket out of there he wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

Murmuring something that could have been a thanks or could just have been a very odd sound, Harry picked the locks on the cuffs that bound John to the wall – they were seriously bad quality, if the man had been conscious he could have broken himself out, no sweat, Harry was sure of it. It was becoming startlingly obvious to Harry that this Heather chick, the witch, had never tried to abduct anyone before; she had no idea what she was doing. Which was incredibly lucky for Harry.

What was going to go wrong then?

Harry wasn't looking forward to karma fighting back; he wasn't often allowed good luck like this.

With John completely unchained Harry was faced with the realisation that he was going to have to drag him up the stairs and outside. Now that he was here and realised that maybe John wasn't in as much danger as he had thought, he was almost willing to just leave him lying there on the floor until he woke up. But that just wasn't Harry's style, so he grudgingly moved the older man.

He'd thought about taking John all the way back to his car – John's, not Harry's – but he had no idea where it was and it would mean dragging John all the way across town, quite literally. So instead Harry propped him up again a sturdy tree away from the roadside, hidden behind some shrubbery. Sure, the guy'd wake up with a sore neck, but as a hunter he was bound to have had worse.

Staring down at the man Harry sighed, scratching his nose. He was nearly asleep on his feet himself, and he wanted to at least get back to his car before he crashed, because he didn't really want to be too close by when John actually woke up. Still, it seemed a bit wrong to just leave him there.

Tugging the journal out of his pocket Harry scavenged a pen from another pocket and scribbled out a little note on a blank page.

"You have a phone for a reason. Use it. HP."

Ripping it out Harry tucked it in one of John's pockets. Satisfied, he walked away, planning on sleeping for a week once he made it back to the Roadhouse.

* * *

**A/N: I'd also like to apologise if this chapter is a bit weird, because it's past midnight and I wrote at least half of it in the last hour. On the bright side it is rather long. Sort of.**


	15. Moving On

**A/N: Heyo. Second day back at school for the term today. That sucked. I've been told my Lilith lore might be a little rusty; if that's so, let's just pretend that falls under my semi-AU statement and leave it at that, ok? It fits with my story that way. This chapter is a little under my preferred shortest length, but it's coming on 10:30pm and my mum hates it when I stay up later than she does so...**

* * *

**Chapter 15 – Moving On:**

February 2001

Hundreds of miles away from the Roadhouse, in a place no human would ever visit, success had finally rained down on a certain demon. Blood was spattered in a macabre fashion across the walls, the floor, and even part of the ceiling, but it did little to dampen the elation of the man – or rather, demon – standing triumphant in the centre of the room, wearing a drenched apron and standing over the latest dead body.

The self-proclaimed King of the Crossroads, Crowley, had spent an ample portion of the last two years and three months running all manner of experiments on the unique substance known as Harry Potter's magical core. He wasn't, of course, naïve enough to think that he could get away with simply touching it and having his way with the power the substance represented: he had sacrificed a demon that had pissed him off in order to try it, regardless. The demon had been fully rejected by it, resulting in a rather gruesome explosion of body parts everywhere. Crowley's lab hadn't been properly clean ever since.

Using disobedient demons as test subjects was standard procedure in Hell, and with so many of them, and so many things to test, he had been, for the most part, happily occupied with his little project.

But it was finally finished. The latest demon had been able to create a ball of light in the palm of their hand without spontaneously combusting, or even bleeding from the ears. That had been the final frontier, so to speak. The demon was only dead now because Crowley wasn't about to chance someone leaking his secrets to the world before he had a chance to unleash them himself.

Wearing a self-satisfied smirk Crowley absorbed the magical energy into his body, and made a note to take good care of his current body, because otherwise he would have to go through more processes removing it again.

With a snap of his fingers the room was spotless. The majority of Harry's magic usage in the last few months before he relinquished it had been cleaning spells, and it showed with how easily Crowley was able to use it.

"Well now, this is going to be all sorts of fun."

* * *

March 2001

There was a new addition to the Roadhouse. It wasn't a hunter; they came and went as they pleased, some only stopping by once in their life – or at least once in the entire time Harry had been staying there. The new guy on the block was actually an MIT drop-out. A real computer whiz, Harry had to admit. As far as he could tell the guy had no real reason to be at the Roadhouse – perhaps it was just a bar he'd stumbled across and he couldn't pick up the motivation to leave? Either way, he was a pretty eccentric character. Harry wasn't surprised he's been kicked out. Ash didn't seem like the sort of person professionals could put up with for long periods of time.

In a way Harry felt as though Ash was encroaching on his territory, since it looked like the guy was going to become a researcher of sorts himself, but on the other hand he was also glad the guy had turned up when he did. Harry had been getting a bit antsy from all the time he'd spent at the Roadhouse, barely ever leaving except that one trip to Valentine that was never spoken of – John had sent him a text sometime while he was passed out in the back of his car telling him to mind his own business and hadn't contacted him again since – and he'd also been feeling a bit guilty about hogging space there, even though he made an effort to pay for things when Ellen wasn't paying attention so she couldn't growl at him for it.

That said, Harry didn't intend to skip out straight away. If Ash turned out to be a lazy good-for-nothing then Harry would dig in his heels and stay put rather than leave the Roadhouse in the hands of someone incompetent while he ran off to do whatever it was he felt like doing – he hadn't really thought that far ahead, hadn't thought seriously about leaving until a few days ago when Ash first burst through the doors. Hell, he didn't even know where he'd _go_, or even if he'd keep on doing research for hunters – would they need him if Ash proved himself?

* * *

Ash definitely took some adjusting to; he was a bit like an acquired taste. With a crazy hair-do Harry would wager he never planned to get rid of – 'business at the front, party at the back' – his personality was reflected easily in the way he presented himself; he didn't give a crap about what people thought of him. It was actually sort of cool, and Harry sometimes envied him for that self-assurance that he still seemed to lack, no matter how much time passed.

"Hey man, you want a beer?"

Ash asked him the same question pretty much every day, but Harry had seen what alcohol did to other people – Ash in particular, since he kept passing out everywhere and Harry would take it upon himself to drag his dead weight back to his own room – and he never accepted. He didn't like the thought of any of his senses voluntarily being messed with, especially since he no longer had the advantage of a magical warning system.

"No Ash, I don't want a beer," Harry shot back, smiling, knowing that by now Ash was pretty much just doing it because it was becoming a habit. A weird little ritual between the two of them. They never called each other out on any of their quirks, and they showed a sort of accepting camaraderie with their routines.

But Harry had made up his mind. Ash was fine. He would leave the Roadhouse in his hands. He just had to decide when.

* * *

Waking up one day at the beginning of May Harry decided that today was the day. Standing in the centre of his bedroom he scrutinised the 'organised' mess he had made of his various possessions. It would take a bit, but he'd be able to pack it all up before anyone came looking for him.

Pulling out some clean clothes Harry dressed in a pair of worn blue jeans and a shirt emblazoned with the emblem of some band he'd never heard of. Taking a deep breath he sunk to his knees on the floor and pulled his bag to him, glancing around at his various book stacks. People would probably wonder how he got them all out of his room with no-one noticing, but it would be no stranger than when they got there in the first place. He had a mysterious aura to uphold after all; they didn't always need answers.

It was surprising where some of his books had gotten to. When he'd packed all of the ones in his room – he had a mental list of everything he owned, having hoarded them for so long – he realised he was still missing quite a few, and decided to finish packing the rest of his things first. Any clothes he happened to leave behind could easily be replaced, and would probably go to good use anyway – if they could find a hunter skinny enough for them; maybe Ash would take them.

"Oookay then," Harry muttered to himself, standing up and stretching, wincing as his leg started to cramp – awkward positions for long periods of time always made his cruciatus tremors act up.

If he remembered correctly Jo had sneaked a few of his books away over the months, so they were probably in her room, which would be an awkward confrontation. There was one behind the bar – he couldn't remember why, but he'd never bothered to retrieve it. Ash had used one to prop up the pool table... Why had he let him do that again? Harry couldn't remember that either.

Reasons didn't matter any more.

Harry braved the bar first for his out-in-the-open books. Ellen raised a brow at him when he climbed behind the counter, but when he popped back up with book in hand she gave him a slightly bemused look before shrugging it off. People sometimes did strange things, and she'd learned long ago not to pry. She probably wouldn't want to know.

A quick query told him that Jo was out – thank Merlin – so it was safe to steal his things back from her room without her noticing. They were harder to find than they should have been, buried under countless other things, but he still managed to make it back out in one piece – in other words, before Jo got back.

He got a funny look from a just-woken Ash when he passed the guy's room, but he was probably still a bit hung-over anyway, so 'funny' might just have been him trying to figure out who it was.

Eventually everything was where it should be, and Harry was faced with telling Ellen he was leaving.

Scrambling for time to sort his thoughts, he went out the back way to where his car had taken up residence to put away his things first. It took a surprising amount of self-control not to just get in the car and drive away without a word, but he knew that would be cruel.

"Don't be a wuss," Harry berated himself, squaring his shoulders and heading back inside.

"Oh, there you are Harry. I was wondering where you'd gone." Ellen called him out as soon as he made it back into the bar.

"Yeah..." Taking a deep breath, Harry blurted it all out at once. "EllenI'mleaving!"

She stared at him, mouth moving slightly as she tried to work out what he'd said.

"You alright kid?"

Harry nodded slowly, curling his fingers in the hem of his shirt.

"It's just... Hmm... It's been great, staying here and all, but ah... you've got Ash now, and I... I think I need to get going." Harry still hadn't mastered the art of talking to Ellen without feeling like he was going to be berated for something – not in a bad way, in a motherly way, which was somehow harder for him to deal with.

Ellen's expression softened into understanding.

"I was wondering when you were going to say that. I could see you getting all stir-crazy, even if you couldn't tell yourself." Harry gaped, wide-eyed. Was he that obvious? "BUT. If I don't hear from you once a week I'm going to have search parties out looking for you, you hear me?"

Laughing lightly with relief, Harry nodded emphatically. He understood the need for reassurance, and it would be nice to hear how everything was going.

The only question that remained now was where was he going?

Harry wasn't sure. He'd find out when he got there.


	16. A New Life

**A/N: Sorry folks, not much going on in this chapter either really. Time skip for next chapter though, and someone new comes into play.**

**Chapter 16 – A New Life:**

If someone asked Harry why he chose to settle down in Jackson of all places, he wouldn't have much of an answer. It had taken him the better part of two months to decide on a place, and eventually it came down to the fact that, when he drove into Jackson, there had been an appropriate house for sale. That, and he was getting sick of road-trips again. Driving wasn't as fulfilling as flying, and he always felt just the tiniest sense of claustrophobia when shut away in his car for long periods of time – it was surprising he didn't feel it more often considering where he'd lived for ten years of his life, but he wasn't going to complain about _not_ being claustrophobic.

He didn't know anyone in Jackson, and that was fine with him. His neighbours had rocked up unannounced the day after he moved in, introducing themselves and asking all sorts of questions, the majority of which he brushed off, and the rest of which he gave vague, ambiguous answers to. They were reasonably nice people, from what he had gleaned, but he was used to being around stoic hunters, not emotional grandparents and families.

Since he finally had enough space to himself Harry set up one of the rooms as a library for all of his books – that way they would be on display if anyone came around looking for help, and he wouldn't have to evade questions on where they came from when he suddenly had more than he'd appeared to. That room got special treatment – a devil's trap on the ceiling, iron door-handles, the works. He'd put a devil's trap beneath the doormat as well, but better safe than sorry.

Having a house was all well and good, but Harry still didn't know what to do with himself. Getting a job to fill his time would be preferable, but he'd incur all sorts of unexplainable absences when he got given a case to research – hunting was first priority after all – and he couldn't afford to rouse suspicion. Who knows what sort of theories they'd make up about him? It couldn't be any more damaging than the sorts of things people had spouted about him during second, fourth and fifth year, but they wouldn't know that.

* * *

A week after Harry's house was fully set up he went out to properly explore the town. Sure, he'd driven through it, and looked around enough to find his house, but he hadn't really _looked_ at anything. He would try and avoid being seen as a shut-in for as long as possible.

It was a nice town – fairly normal – and it was a bonus that it was a decent distance from the wizard and witch over in Valentine.

The only problem Harry ever had with moving these days was that it left him feeling vulnerable. He had to learn the layout of the place and judge the people, shove them into little categories in his mind – those who were naturally abrasive, those likely to be weak to supernatural influence, etcetera etcetera. Anomalies were dangerous. They had to be weeded out as efficiently as possible.

Passing by a Supermarket as he walked the streets Harry absently noted the 'help wanted' sign before moving on. They would pop up all over the place, generally at places Harry would never think of working at, even if he really had to. Though he could cook fairly well – a side-effect of being the equivalent of a house-elf to the Dursleys – he didn't want to have anything to do with food, even if it was as small an involvement as scanning items at a checkout counter. That pretty much cut his job opportunities down by half, but as it stood he wasn't necessarily looking for a job. A hobby would suffice, if it was one that would get him out of the house.

'Jo will kill me if I slack off with my training,' he realised, and, though it was unlikely he would ever have cause to run into Jo anywhere in the vicinity, since Ellen wasn't likely to let her venture that far from the Roadhouse unless something really serious was going down, it still put a little bit of fear into him. That girl was ten times more skilled than he was and probably ever would be, but hell she expected a lot from him. Thankfully he had a lot of empty space in his house for weapons training – not gun training, but he was sure if he really needed to he'd be able to find a firing range somewhere – but it wasn't really appropriate for the rest of his training regime.

He needed to find a gym.

* * *

Did Harry ever mention how much he hated working out in public? There was always this sense of judgement when out in the public eye, but it was worse in places like gyms. Particularly for people like him, with his unexplainable scars and malnourished body – you couldn't tell he'd been malnourished, per say, but he was inexplicably scrawny and shorter than he'd like to be. If he wore long sleeves and covered up while at the gym he almost got more stares than when he went in a singlet and showed off his scars – battle wounds, but they didn't know that.

It was embarrassing.

The only plus side to it all was that he could outlast most of the guys who looked like long-time gym regulars. He was pretty sure they all hated him for it, but it amused him to no end to see them all smug, only to lose face when they became exhausted first. If Jo's morning runs were good for anything, it was endurance.

Endurance was also necessary for outrunning any nasty beasts that might decide they wanted to kill him.

Thankfully nothing like that had happened yet.

* * *

Harry stared down at the phone in his hands, thumb hesitating over the button that would put his call through. He'd talked to Ellen just after he finished setting up his house, but not since. It wasn't that he'd forgotten, he'd just... been putting it off. While it was reassuring to hear her voice – hell, she'd become something of a mother to him, just like Cassidy had been an older sister type of person in his life – that was one of the very reasons he'd wanted to lay off for a little while. He needed time to adjust without the crutch that Ellen had become.

He had forgotten one very important detail in doing so.

In a world of uncertainties Ellen liked routines just as much as Harry did. They were grounding factors in an ever changing situation. And Harry hadn't called her in over three weeks.

She was going to be furious.

Swallowing thickly, Harry cleared his throat, shifted into a more comfortable position on his couch, pulling his legs up to stretch out next to him, and finally pushed the button.

Holding the cell up to his ear he listened to it ring; once, twice, three times... Someone picked up after the fifth ring; Harry guessed it couldn't be too hectic over there then.

"Roadhouse," a familiar voice greeted flatly over the dim sound of chatter. Harry's lips twitched upwards.

"Hey Jo, long time no see."

"_Harry!?_"

Rolling his eyes at her tone Harry picked at a fraying thread on the arm of the couch.

"Yeah, it's me."

"Where have you _been?_ Where did you _go?_"

Oh, that's right. Jo had been out when he left and he hadn't spoken to her since. That in itself might just have been a bigger mistake than all the missed calls for Ellen.

"Jo, breathe. I'm sorry, I thought your mum would have told you." Frowning slightly Harry searched his memory. "You could have rung you know? You've got my number somewhere over there."

There was a heavy pause; he could almost sense Jo's embarrassment at freaking out on him. She couldn't be doing too badly though, or she might have threatened him with bodily harm. Angry love. If he was there in person she would have forced him into some new and unusual training session as punishment for making her worry.

Distantly Harry heard Jo calling out, in a muffled, hand-over-the-mouthpiece way. He waited patiently, fingers drumming nervously. It was hard to distinguish sound over the phone, what with static crackles, the occasional bad-connection echo, and the distinctly mechanical hiss that warped speech just that tiny little bit as it travelled. He wasn't sure if it was still Jo on the other end, so he chose to remain silent until someone else made the first move.

The silence was just starting to get unnerving when someone remembered he was there.

"Harry Evan Peverell you nearly gave me a heart-attack when you stopped calling!" Harry flinched. Ellen was definitely what you would call a mother dragon. Fierce and protective. And she was way more than a little bit pissed off.

"When you promise me something I expect you to honour that promise, not go gallivanting off wherever without a thought, you hear me?"

Harry bit back his automatic response of 'You know damn well where I've been' because this wasn't like back in England. You could be in one place one day and halfway across the country the next time you speak to anyone. That was the nature of the job. Grievous bodily harm could occur at any time, and he'd seen plenty of it around, both in hunters and from other accidents in civilians – he'd taken to referring to anyone who wasn't in the know as a civilian, because in their line of work, that's exactly what they were.

"I'm sorry Ellen. I probably should have told you that I wasn't planning on checking in for a few weeks."

"Probably? There's no probably about it. You definitely should have told me. And whatever the hell for?"

It was sort of embarrassing, now that he thought about it, and perhaps not as big a deal as he had made it out to be. There was a part of him that really didn't want to tell Ellen. After all, he'd never made any mention of that sort of thing while he'd been at the Roadhouse, and he liked to think he'd become more difficult to read over the years, so she ought to have no idea how important she had become in his life.

Then again, Ellen seemed to know everything without even asking.

"I… Look, Ellen, I didn't mean to worry you, I swear. It's just… I needed to make sure I could really do this, without your help."

"Without my help?"

Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose with his free hand. In his mind it was a difficult concept to explain, because although he had gotten used to relying on and caring for other people, he hadn't yet adjusted to people caring about him – and that had to say something about how damaged he was, at the core, since he'd had people caring about him since he was eleven, and now he was almost twenty-one.

"I owe you so much for letting me free-load at the Roadhouse all these years, you know that right?" Harry cut off her noise of protest before she could get started. "It really helped me out when I was a bit lost in the world. But the thing is, I'm a bit lost again, and I was hoping I'd be able to adjust to the changes without having you to lean on. You'd think I'd be used to it by now, I've been alone for a while now, but it's more difficult now, knowing that you're only a phone call away. So I shut my phone off for a few weeks. Yeah, I saw the missed calls. I am sorry though."

That wasn't exactly what he'd been aiming to say, not to mention that was more than he'd ever talked about his life before Nebraska in the whole time they'd known each other. He wasn't good at that sort of thing. Which is exactly why research was actually well suited to him – he didn't have to be emotional about anything, just read and write, process and deliver.

"I suppose you probably think I'm being clingy and overbearing, don't you." Ellen muttered, sounding, if Harry's ears weren't playing tricks on him, just a little bit teary. He shook his head vehemently in denial, despite the fact she couldn't see him.

"Of course not! I'm the one who started the whole phone thing anyway with that bloody Winchester fellow. I do appreciate that you care enough to worry on my behalf when I don't check in."

Ellen laughed, and Harry relaxed slightly, loosening his tight grip on his cell.

"Don't you dare do that again young man." She warned.

"I promise Ellen. Never again. You will be top priority from now on."

The call moved to lighter subjects after that, and when Harry finally got off the phone nearly an hour later he felt a whole lot better about the whole situation.

If something called to him, he'd get a job. He could deal with whatever skepticism was thrown his way. His life revolved around the supernatural now, and no-one could say anything to stop that.

* * *

**Note to Brynchilla:**

**Well, believe it or not, everyone has pretty much convinced me that Harry's going to get his magic back at some point. I wasn't originally planning on it. Currently he is pretty much a squib – somewhere along the lines of a slightly in-tune-to-the-spiritual-world muggle. I've always thought of magic as a little bit sentient too really, but in this story at least it's not going to be so to much of an extreme level. The sensory powers that he's managed to retain are sort of magic trying to fight back, because he's still left with more than what a regular squib or muggle has, but since his core has been moved away from him it can't help him personally so much as fight the other user, which would be Crowley. I don't want to go into too much detail about it here, plus if I said something now and ended up doing it differently someone would probably notice and complain... But yeah, your reviews are always interesting, and I don't mind you asking questions, although it must be kind of a pain having to wait a whole week for answers.**


	17. The Eldest Son

**A/N: Hey everyone, welcome to yet another chapter. I swear that this is essentially the last pre-season 1 chapter. The next chapter is a sort of 'start of season 1 from John's pov rather than Dean's' but otherwise, definitely season 1. Promise. Do you know what's weird? By the time I get around to posting Chapter 20 I'll be in Italy. That's sort of a scary thought. Have you all read the notice on my profile? I suggest you do that. Also, I know that hellistic isn't a word, but it sounds kind of cool and to me explains what I wanted to say. Anyway, on with the chapter**

**Chapter 17 – The Eldest Son:**

August 2003, Jackson:

It wasn't the first time Harry had become entranced by his reflection, and it wouldn't be the last either. There was no sense of vanity to it – he didn't stare because he thought he looked good, or he wanted to make sure his hair was lying just right. The pads of his fingertips traced once again over the long-ago memorised outline pressed into his neck. One would have thought he would have gotten used to it by now, and in a way he had, but sometimes it still managed to surprise him. On a day to day basis he barely gave it a second glance, and he could barely tell it was there, but on others it stood out like black on white and he couldn't shift his gaze from it.

Though Harry wasn't the sort of person who would normally entertain thoughts of inking his skin, it had occurred to him on more than one occasion that it might be… amusing, for lack of a better word, to get a tattoo – say, an anti-possession charm or some other such anti-hellistic symbol – drawn permanently on his skin directly on top of it. Crowley would blow a gasket if he ever saw it.

But Harry wasn't _that_ suicidal, and he wasn't decisive enough to want to risk a tattoo that he might change his mind about a few weeks down the track.

Nevertheless, it might have been worth it just to see the look on the demon's face if he ever appeared before Harry again.

* * *

Shortly after Harry finally managed to pull himself away from the mirror in the bathroom – it was one of those days, and the image had burned itself onto his retinas – he found himself dozing on the couch in his living room when his phone went off.

Not wanting to move, he simply hung his arm down off the side of the couch and plucked it from the floor where he'd left it for just that reason. Raising it to his line of vision he noted that the blinding screen read caller unknown.

That wasn't surprising. Every now and again a new hunter would pop up with his number, having received it from another hunter, the Roadhouse, or even another researcher if they didn't have the time and resources they knew Harry had. And of course, with most hunters being the paranoid creatures that they are, it wasn't surprising for them to either have multiple cell phones, or to change their number regularly. It wasn't worth keeping track of them all that way, so he just waited for them to contact him and see what happened.

Still, there was always the tiniest bit of trepidation when he answered unknown calls.

He would recognise an international area code immediately, but what if someone inside the States found him? Deep inside, he didn't truly believe that there would be any sort of search effort from England still trying to find him after all this time – some of him didn't believe there would have been one at all – but it was an irrational fear, and so he'd long since given up trying to rationalise it.

Shaking it off Harry pushed the answer button before the caller gave up and held it up to his ear.

"Hello?"

It was rude, but manners weren't always up there with hunters, and it was sometimes safer to see who they thought they were ringing before confirming or denying.

A pregnant pause ensued.

"Is this Harry?"

It was an unfamiliar voice. Harry had only half been expecting that. Still, there was just something about it, like he'd heard something similar once before, but he couldn't place it.

"Yes it is, what can I do for you?"

Not for the first time Harry cursed himself for using the same phone for his research and for his handy-man jobs – the 'hobby' he'd taken up being fixing things for fellow residents of Jackson; for once all the shit he'd gone through in his younger years was actually proving to be useful.

"The thing is, I'm in over my head a bit. I remembered seeing your name in my dad's journal, and he left it behind, so I looked it up. I can't ask dad 'cause he expects me to deal with it on my own but _I don't know what's happening!_"

Emerald eyes blinked in surprise. He sighed heavily and reached up with his free hand to rub at his temples. Sure, he might have been looking for a distraction, but he wasn't sure if he could deal with hysterics – not that whoever was on the other end of the line would ever agree that they were hysterical.

"You're going to have to give me details mate. I'm not a miracle worker, no matter how bloody convenient that would be."

The pause this time was more awkward than suspicious.

"Sorry, sorry." Harry could hear the other man taking a deep breath. "There's just... Drownings. Everywhere. Everyone is drowning and I can't figure out how to fucking stop it!"

Wrinkling his nose in resignation Harry swung himself up into a sitting position, contemplating what creatures from his memory dealt with water. Obviously it wasn't a haunting, because the guy sounded far too stressed for that.

"Slower. What do you mean by everyone? Break it down for me. It might help."

"There's been... Ten drownings in the past two weeks, completely at random. All men – no connection other than living in the same town."

"Drowning? That's an odd manner of death. I can see why you'd be stumped." Harry rubbed his thumb across his bottom lip, thinking, already mentally sorting between possibilities. "You're absolutely certain that it isn't some sort of haunting?"

"No. But that's the problem! There haven't been any suspicious drownings in the last what, 50 years at least, and other than the sudden drowning problem no-one has died under any potentially questionable circumstances recently either. If it is a haunting then I have absolutely no idea what might have triggered it or who the culprit would be."

Harry mulled this all over in his head, rolling it around and trying to force fragments together to try and create some sort of picture. It sounded familiar to him – not in the way that he'd faced it before, but like he ought to know what was happening.

"What's your name?" Harry eventually asked, after dragging a few more details from the guy, as he walked towards his library. "I'll call you back on this number once I find something."

A relieved sigh was breathed down the connection and Harry rolled his eyes, waiting.

"Dean." He paused then, as though contemplating the merits of sharing the rest, but then seemed to shake it off. "Dean Winchester."

Oh. Well, that made sense, Harry supposed. He guessed it also meant that John wasn't pissed off enough at him to close off a decent information source as a just-in-case – John himself wouldn't be calling Harry for anything less than life-or-death.

Harry hummed an acknowledgement before hanging up; he couldn't waste time with niceties.

Dropping his cell on the table just inside the door Harry rolled up his sleeves and stared thoughtfully at the book-lined shelves, wondering where on earth he was going to start.

* * *

Working without sleep sometimes made Harry hyper-aware, and sometimes made him paranoid. It also, on occasion, made him completely useless.

Thankfully, this was one of those hyper-aware cases, and after staying up all night Harry finally stumbled across – literally, the book had somehow fallen onto the floor, either from his research stack or from the shelves – the right sort of book, and as soon as he opened it pieces started falling into place.

European folklore. Drowning drowning drowning. Peaceful townspeople. A woman gone missing.

It had been staring him in the face the entire time.

When he'd been in that transition period between obsessive research and waiting for Crowley to come through on his end of their bargain back in England, Hermione had, for a while, tried to form some sort of understanding of why he was doing it all. He didn't tell her anything important – even though she was muggle-born she'd still likely scoff at the thought that Harry believed in demons – but she tried her best to worm her way into his thought process.

All she really gathered was that he'd taken an abrupt and obsessive interest in folklore and myths. Nevertheless, in a truly Hermione fashion, she had offered up a plethora of books of her own finding. Some he already had – which was actually surprising, considering she didn't really believe in what he was doing, and mostly gave him the most fantasy-sounding folklore she could find.

But there had been this one story, folklore from the Faroe Islands about seal women who, when scorned, drowned all the men in the village. It fit the situation Dean had described down to a T, except it was in the wrong part of the world. Though, as a rule of thumb, it wasn't wise to assume that something would remain solely in its country of origin.

He'd actually forgotten he even owned that book. Hefting it from hand to hand Harry sat down on the floor – ignoring the chair he usually inhabited – and slowly lay down, holding the book above his head and flicking through the pages almost absently. Surprisingly it had actually been one of his favourite leisure myths to read when he'd been head-deep in stuffy symbols and rules for too long. The words were forever imprinted in his mind.

Eventually Harry fell asleep on the cold, unforgiving hardwood floor.

* * *

When the sun woke him barely an hour later Harry had a noticeable headache, his eyes were fuzzy – his glasses had fallen off while he slept – and he had a paper-cut on his cheek from the book. But all of that was pretty commonplace, so he shrugged it all off and forced himself to his feet, stretching and working the kinks out of his spine.

He was beating himself up just a little bit about not recognising the signs earlier – like, when Dean had rung him and before he hung up – but there was nothing he could do about it. There wasn't any way for him to turn back time – seriously, he had no access to Time Turners, plus he didn't think it wise to go back in time and snatch the phone off of himself before he could hang up. Plus, he'd remember it happening if he had done that, which meant he didn't, which meant he shouldn't... Harry shook his head, his headache increasing. Time travel had always confused him.

Padding in sock-clad feet Harry wandered into the kitchen, poured himself a glass of water, sculled it, and poured another. He banged through the cupboards until he found the bottle of pain pills he'd picked up a while back, and downed one for his headache. Briefly he contemplated having a shower first, but he felt it more prudent to call Dean and explain his findings.

Stifling a yawn – he should really avoid sleeping on the floor if at all possible – he picked up his phone and scrolled through his recent calls, hitting dial when he found the right one.

"What?"

Oh, grouchy morning Dean. Harry had to wonder if the guy went to sleep any earlier than Harry had – his voice had a sleepy gruffness to it that indicated sleep, so he had woken the hunter up, yet most hunters could function as much as necessary on very little sleep.

"Dean, it's Harry. I think I know what you're looking at."

There was a pause, then a curse and a shuffling sound.

"Seriously?" Dean coughed, and when he spoke again he sounded much more awake. "Explain."

"The situation has all the makings of an angry selkie-"

"A what?"

"A selkie. A seal person. Anyway, as the lore goes, men occasionally steal the skins of selkies to prevent them from going back into the sea. The women are then usually forced to marry the man, who hides the skin away. In the story she escapes, and the man goes out hunting and kills her selkie family. She then seeks revenge by drowning men from the village."

"And you think that's what's happening?"

"Well you said that a woman had gone missing. With that fact everything ads up."

"Well that's freaking wonderful. But how do I stop it?"

Harry rolled his eyes, shoving his glasses up and rubbing his eyes with the back of his thumb.

"Well, you can either wait it out until she feels her vengeance has been accomplished," Harry could hear Dean begin to protest as he took a breath, and continued on before he could articulate those protests, "Or you could track her down and kill her. There's no proof anywhere, but theoretically that would stop it."

"_Theoretically?_"

"Hey, that's the best I've got right now. Sorry."

It did suck sometimes, when he wasn't sure whether or not his information would help. This was one of those times.

"Fine."

"Hey, tell me how it works out, yeah?" Harry implored, offering up his standard 'please don't leave me hanging' thing. Dean was silent for what seemed like a long time, and Harry was almost certain he was going to shoot him down. Then the other man sighed, and grunted out a grudging affirmative – perhaps John had told Dean about him after all.

* * *

A week later Harry received a text. All it said was "I suppose you were right."

Harry smiled, and then went back to fixing Brian Tindel's fridge. One more job successfully accomplished.


	18. Mysterious Phone Calls

**A/N: Hey everyone. I'm really sorry for not updating yesterday. I had to do my seminar today and I was rushing around doing all sorts of last minute stuff for it last night - printing cue cards, clipping video files, checking my powerpoint. If anyone out there is in year 13 in NZ you'll understand my pain. Seminars are evil. Technically this chapter has the storyline for two chapters, but I just wasn't getting anywhere, so I merged them. Sorry if it still seems a bit pathetic. Also, I can't remember _why_ I wrote the 28th down in my plan for the date for this chapter, but can we just roll with it? Thanks a heap. Love you lot, as always.**

* * *

**Chapter 18 – Mysterious Phone Calls:**

_October 28 2005, Jackson_

Life ebbed and flowed for Harry. There were high points and low points, goods and bads, and sometimes nothing at all. The nothing moments were almost worse than the low points, sometimes. Generally, the low points were either when he received an injury of some degree that actually interfered with his capabilities – like that time he was helping someone across town move out and they dropped the washing machine on his foot; he'd been laid up in plaster for months – or when a hunt he was involved in went south. Every single failure – there weren't a lot of them, but anything was a bad number – weighed heavily on him, like he should have been able to do more, say more, something, anything that would have aided in a better outcome.

His moments of nothingness allowed him to mull over his own failings and short-comings. Harry would never go as far to say as he suffered from any form of depression, because that was ridiculous, saviours couldn't be _depressed_, but he was never really happy either.

So maybe he was a little bit frustrated with his lot in life. Yes, he'd gotten here all on his own – through his own brains, his own choices and his own decisions, be they good or bad – but he never felt like he was doing _enough._

There was a whole god-forsaken world out there that barely anyone knew of – alright, two of them, but he couldn't care less about the wizards anymore – and he couldn't do a single thing about it. If he started ranting about ghosts and demons and werewolves he'd get locked up, sent to a psychiatric hospital. No-one would actually take heed of what he was saying.

It annoyed him to no end to realise that there was literally nothing he could do. 'Ignorance is bliss' is only applicable until those ignorant people start getting tangled up with those things they were blessedly ignorant of.

Sometimes Harry wondered when he had become such a pessimist.

It was probably around the time Crowley had taken away his magic.

That was, after all, the single largest turning point in his entire life, even more so than realising he had magic in the first place, even more than being forced to watch as his classmate died before him while his body was used to resurrect the very foe he had sacrificed his magic to defeat.

He didn't like dwelling on the past. That didn't mean he didn't do it.

* * *

Technically Harry was still meant to be doing rehab for his foot. He called bullshit on that. He'd been out of that cast for nearly a year now, and he was pretty sure the physiotherapist was just scamming him for money now, since it had become apparent to the residents of Jackson that he had some miraculous supply of it.

Besides, he'd had worse injuries before. True, they had been healed by more immediate means, but he was pretty sure he knew the limits of his own body better than some random doctor. He'd stopped going two weeks ago, but he still got calls trying to reschedule.

What he had learnt from the whole incident was not to help people move.

* * *

John Winchester hated asking for help. That was something Harry had learned immediately, and he respected it. He hadn't contacted Harry since that first time, and he didn't mind. He was a loner. It was hardly surprising.

What was surprising was when, shortly after Harry arrived back from an urgent trip to the supermarket, his phone rang with a familiar number.

It was John.

Of course, Harry didn't realise that immediately. Harry had long since stopped bothering to add people to his contacts on his phone, and it wasn't the same phone as before anyway, but there was this vaguely ominous feeling – something he normally attributed to his bouts of almost-depression, really – that had been hanging around all day, despite the fact that he felt pretty good for once. Apparently John calling him was an ominous sign.

And it was.

Harry picked up after nearly ten rings – he'd had to remember where he put his phone, then find it. His regular "hello" was cut off before he even began. John was frantic – manic even.

"Harry. I need to pick your brain."

Though John Winchester often preferred using last names, he refused to say Harry's – something about it being too posh or too British or just too strange.

"What about?" Harry refrained from commenting about their previous lack of contact. He also refrained from making some sarcastic remark about John's request.

"What do you know about demons with yellow eyes?"

That… wasn't what he'd been expecting. Plus, yellow eyes? Harry had never seen a demon with yellow eyes; he'd only ever encountered blacks and reds. There wasn't exactly anyone he could ask either, because there was no way in hell he was calling on Crowley again.

"What's this about all of a sudden?"

There was a pause.

"It's personal."

Harry sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Look, I'm sorry if it's personal, but I need context. I've never even _heard_ of, let alone _seen,_ a yellow-eyed demon."

John appeared to be debating the merits of hanging up and pretending the call had never happened.

"So you can't help me then."

"Bloody hell John, tell me what's going on in that head of yours!" Being emotional wasn't the best way to deal with someone like John, but Harry couldn't help it. He cared about people – people he knew anyway, strangers not so much. And he really shouldn't be trying to get John to divulge secrets close to his heart, since Harry would react badly if someone tried that on him, but again, he couldn't help it. He knew this man now, and he also knew the man's son. He wasn't about to let him run off and get himself killed without even trying to persuade him otherwise.

"At least tell me what the colours mean."

And Harry supposed that was a no. He considered not helping him, but caved almost immediately.

"As far as I can tell, black are just normal demons. Red eyes are generally crossroads demons." But Harry couldn't for the life of him remember if he had ever seen Crowley's demon eyes. What colour was the 'king of the crossroads'?

"So no special powers? Hidden agendas?"

"Well no, unless you count making deals. Just generic demon stuff. Nothing extra." The 'that I know of' remained unsaid, but was heavily implied.

"I see."

This wasn't going down well. John didn't seem discouraged in the slightest. Harry ran a hand through his hair, ruffling it and causing it to stick all over the place.

"John..."

"No. Harry, I need you to do one thing for me. Just one."

Damn, sometimes Harry wished he was better at saying no.

"Fine. Tell me what you need."

"If anyone calls, looking for me, just don't... Don't tell them anything. Don't tell them I called, don't tell them what we talked about."

Harry didn't need a vocal admittance to realise that John was talking mostly about Dean. It sounded awful, but Harry couldn't think of anyone else who would desperately call _him_ looking for John.

"Yes, alright, fine. Just, don't expect me to be happy if anything happens. I'm not hauling your ass out of the fire this time."

John hung up and Harry hung his head, dropping his hands to hang between his legs as he breathed out slowly. This was not good. Not good at all.

* * *

_November_

Harry had been restless ever since John's phone call. He'd started going through all of his demon-related books all over again, trying to find reference to a yellow-eyed demon – not that books were much help, since they didn't normally mention the whole eye thing. So far he hadn't found anything; he was still completely in the dark about what John was out doing and what exactly he was keeping a secret.

To be honest, he'd even phoned Ash and asked him, in a round about way, if _he_ knew anything at all about demons – he didn't. His speciality was more about _using_ computers for various research ventures, not having specific hard-wired knowledge himself. It was a failed venture from the start, but he hadn't been expecting too much.

But the stress was starting to get to him, and he didn't even know what was going on.

And then the inevitable happened.

Dean called.

For a moment Harry just stared at the phone as it rang, wondering if it would be easier to just not pick up the phone. But he wasn't like that, couldn't bring himself to be like that. Saving people at the cost of his own sanity. It was practically Harry Potter 101.

"De-"

"Haveyouheardfrommydadrecently?He'smissing!" Dean cut Harry off before he could get a full word out, speaking a mile a minute. Though, if he put his mind to it, Harry could probably pick out the separate words, it was easier to just ask again.

"Dean, slow down, I can't understand a word you're saying."

"Sorry, I just..." If Harry didn't know better he would have sworn the guy was on the verge of a breakdown. But then again, he also thought that, if he focussed hard enough, he could hear someone else in the background. Dean wouldn't have a breakdown in front of another person, if he had one at all. "My dad, John, he went on a hunt the other week without telling me and he hasn't come back yet. He won't answer my calls and I have no idea where he might have gone."

"Oh merlin... Dean..." Harry bit his lip, mulling his next words over in his mind. "Are you sure he's not just busy?" And now he felt like a jerk. Why did he have to uphold his promises? His life would be so much easier if he were immoral.

"No, he would have told me."

"Listen, Dean, you're what, 25 now?"

"26," he mumbled.

"Okay, 26. Did you ever stop to think that maybe, just maybe, John figured you'd be fine on your own now? That you didn't need to know where he was twenty-four/seven? This could always just be him forcing independence on you." Harry crossed his fingers and hoped to hell Dean bought it.

There was a long silence, broken only by Dean's harsh breathing. Then a different voice spoke up.

"Hello? Harry, right? Listen, this is Sam Winchester. Please, if you know anything, anything at all, could you just, you know, tell us? I'm not sure what the likelihood is, but there _is_ a chance that he could be in danger, and I... I don't want him to wind up dead when the last time we spoke to each other was in anger."

Harry clenched his eyes shut and held his breath, his fingers digging into his knee. Did that guy know how much he was guilt-tripping Harry? Was that the point? Did he somehow know that John had been in contact with him? But no matter how much he might want to, he didn't really have anything constructive to say anyway.

Fuck.

His life could never be simple, could it?

"I'm sorry Sam, I really am. I can't help you."

And before anyone had a chance to say anything else, Harry hung up, and turned his phone off for good measure.

Didn't he just feel like the world's biggest douche?


	19. Life as a Hunter Library

**A/N: Hey, sorry about the late update, again. I didn't have enough written yesterday to warrant updating, and my internet was out for most of today, so I couldn't have posted any sooner even if I'd been capable of it. I'm going to try and have the next chapter done by the time I leave on Friday, but that only leaves me tomorrow to do it in, and there's all sorts of last-minute packing and stuff to do so... I'll try my best, but no promises. **

**Oh, and this chapter title made more sense in my original plans, but I couldn't be bothered finding something to change it to.**

**Grazie.**

* * *

**Chapter 19 – Life as a Hunter Library:**

Harry spent the week after Sam and Dean's phone call fixing cars, free of charge. He needed something to do with his hands, to occupy his time and his mind with. Unfortunately, since he pretty much knew all the cars in Jackson inside and out by that point, he was working on auto-pilot, and so had more than enough time to think about everything that had happened. It hadn't been one of his best moments, or one of his best decisions.

He couldn't take more than a week of it.

In the end he hopped into his own car and drove all the way back to Nebraska and the Roadhouse, hoping it would be able to ease his mind.

Ellen was ecstatic to see him, though she hid it well. Jo was standoffish for the first two or three days, apparently miffed as hell that he didn't bother calling her often. No-one else really cared either way – he had, after all, only spoken to Ash the other week.

Slipping back into life at the Roadhouse was ridiculously easy; it was almost as though he had never left. He didn't plan on staying for too long, but he needed the company of other people – people in the know, not just random people – for a while.

He even actually indulged Ash in a beer or two. Never enough to veer anywhere close to drunk, but enough that Ash stopped being surprised when he accepted his offers.

Mostly he just spent an absurd amount of time on one of Ash's laptops.

No matter what he tried he hadn't been able to shake the feeling that there was something seriously bad going on out there, and that John was trying to put himself in the centre of it all. He needed to know what – even if the hows and whys were never explained.

Never let it be said that the internet was straight-forward. Yes, if you were looking for something normal, Harry supposed it would be better, but it was a long, drawn-out process to find what he was looking for.

He could find nothing concrete – he had nothing to go on, after all, apart from yellow eyes, and lore never spoke about eyes, not really. Hell, he couldn't even tell what lore was legitimate and what was bogus.

Alcohol and nerves fuelled his lengthy, time-consuming search.

When he narrowed down his options Harry figured it wouldn't hurt to simply make an educated guess on the topic. The problem was whether to risk giving that guess to Dean, who it would probably make a lot more sense to. But even if it did make sense to Dean, would he then be sending him off to some possibly deadly fight as well? He knew well enough that Dean was older than him, but only by a little bit, he argued to himself, and he didn't want him to do anything rash. At the same time, he could guess wrong. There could be exponential fall-out from that too.

It was such a pain!

His life would be so much simpler if he could stop forming random attachments to people. He'd never even met Dean before!

Ellen was concerned about him; especially that one morning when she walked into the bar to find not only Ash, but Harry as well passed out on the pool table – he'd passed out from exhaustion, not because he was drunk, but it still went against everything he normally did.

She had yelled at him, taken Ash's laptop off him and locked him in a spare room, ordering him to sleep. He'd grumbled for awhile, before acquiescing. The sleep cleared the fog from his mind, but made his choice no easier.

In the end it was guilt that made the decision for him.

He sent off a simple text to Dean - "Azazel?" - and tried to convince himself that he was washing his hands of the Winchesters, though he knew that wasn't true.

* * *

Harry ended up spending three months at the Roadhouse – much longer than he had originally intended. He wasn't complaining though. It had been fun, having Jo insult his form while she checked him over to make sure he'd been keeping up with his training.

He'd also forcibly been introduced to another info-guy.

This guy, Bobby Singer, was his kind of guy – all books and no computer. But he didn't exactly feel like comparing notes, so he simply wrote down his number and left it at that.

* * *

Going back home to Jackson – Harry still found it weird calling Jackson home, when he was so used to Privet Drive, Grimmauld Place and Hogwarts – wasn't exactly high on his priority list, but he'd pretty much expended his capacity for road-tripping while looking for a place to live. There was nothing to draw his attention elsewhere – he didn't want to encroach on some hunter's work, because he was in absolutely no mood to deal with a shitty hunter – so he was resigned to going home.

The main reason he wasn't overly looking forward to going back to Jackson was because, while working for everyone, they'd all gotten rather friendly towards him. If it were just that, it would be fine, but to them, friendly seemed to mean nosy. If anyone did something or went somewhere they wanted to know who, what, where and why. Only the wizards had been that nosy about his life back in England, and that was because they couldn't afford him running off and getting himself killed before he could defeat Voldemort.

He didn't appreciate the lack of perceived privacy.

But still, home was home, and he could always just lock the doors and unplug the land-line in order to get away from them for awhile. They weren't so nosy that they'd throw a brick through his window or pick the lock like Cassidy was known to do. If they were he'd have moved out ages ago.

His house had a ridiculously dilapidated feel to it when he returned. Sure it was dark and a bit dusty and he needed to go shopping for food the moment he got back, but it wasn't that bad. He'd only been gone three months. Nothing had crawled in and died, nothing had leaked, nothing had gone off – he'd thrown all his food out before he left, not sure when he'd be back – nothing had broken, and there had been no spontaneous electrical fires. There were no demons trapped in the many circles around the house, no disturbed salt lines, nothing had mysteriously vanished.

It was perfectly fine, and for some reason that annoyed him.

Why _wasn't_ anyone out to get him? What about all those demons who hated Crowley? Why had none of them come after him?

All the time he'd spent on the internet looking up things about Azazel, well, maybe he shouldn't have. He was getting paranoid with all the different demon lore he'd stumbled across.

Sometimes he wished he could just obliviate himself. That way he wouldn't be so on edge.

* * *

Nerves and the still lingering guilt eventually forced Harry to do something he hadn't done, well, ever, since he left England.

He actually rang Cassidy. It was a long shot really – it had been years and years, who said she even still lived in the same place?

Harry held his breath as the phone rang.

"Hello, this is Cassidy."

Harry nearly laughed at the sound of her voice. He shouldn't have doubted her. He should have called her sooner. Much sooner.

She was going to be so mad at him.

"Hey. I don't know if you, ah, remember me but, well, it's Harry."

There was a long pause. Harry could almost hear her teeth grinding in irritation. It was a beautiful sound to him. Eventually she sighed loudly down the phone.

"You have no idea how much I want to yell at you right now young man, but I suppose that would be counter-productive..."

"It's good to hear your voice Cassidy. I was half expecting you to just hang up on me."

"I probably should too! But Nathan would kill me if he found out you rang and I hung up on you. So I'm going to give you a chance to explain, though lord knows you don't deserve it. We thought you'd been kidnapped until we managed to break into your apartment and found all your bloody books gone!"

"I-"

"And why the hell didn't you call earlier?! It's been seven years Harry! You could have been dead for all we knew!"

That was true. Harry hadn't really stopped to think of what it would seem like for them when he suddenly up and disappeared. His reasoning wouldn't stand up to her scrutiny, because she didn't know most of the story. He had been trying to cut all ties with England, just in case – in case of what, he was no longer sure, but it had been just in case.

"I just needed to get away." Harry told her quietly, thinking back to how he had been coping – or rather, not coping – back then.

"... I suppose I can't blame you for it... It's just a shame that I – we – couldn't be enough for you though."

Oh man. There was enough raw emotion in her voice to imply that it was simply her thoughts, but he knew her, she was sneaky, and she was guilt-tripping him. Damn. But he definitely deserved it this time. He could take it in stride.

"Hey, you know me, I didn't want to be a burden. There was simply too much history for me around London. I'm coping much better where I am now."

"And where _are_ you?"

"America."

"Bloody hell, of course you are."

Harry could imagine her shaking her head in exasperation. It was one of her favourite expressions when it came to him.

"Yeah. You don't have to worry about me anymore though. I really just needed to hear your voice – things have been sort of hectic at the moment."

"I'm honestly not sure if I want to know. Listen... Nathan is coming over in two weeks. He's staying for a month. You had better ring at some point during that month and talk to Nathan; if you don't I'll track you down and drag you back home, understand?"

Chuckling lightly, glad that she wasn't _too_ mad, Harry pulled his chain from under his shirt and examined it as he listened to her talk about all the things that had happened while he was gone. They were family too, and it was nice to patch things up. At least this way, if something happened to him they'd leave on good terms.

It made him realise that he should probably make peace with other parts of his life as well.

Not the wizards as a whole, that would be too much too soon, but perhaps at least with himself, his heritage. Holding his phone against his shoulder with his ear, he used his hands to unclasp the chain of his necklace and pulled it off, letting the rings slide off the ends. He held them in his hand, weighing the metal.

"I can do this," he muttered to himself, interrupting Cassidy's story-telling.

"What?" She asked, confused.

Harry shook his head, although she couldn't possibly see it.

"I will definitely remember to ring you back," he offered, straightening up and cradling the phone in his hand again.

"Oh. Well, good then."

"I should probably go now though, before my phone bill gets any higher."

"Right, sure, sure. Goodbye Harry."

"Goodbye."

Hanging up Harry put the phone down on the side-table and shifted all of his attention to the two rings in his hand.

Potter and Black.

Theoretically, no-one should know what that meant here in America. It should be safe. They were just rings.

_Just rings._

What was the good in hiding them away?

No, he needed to start embracing himself and who he was, magic or no magic.

Making his mind up, Harry slipped the rings onto his fingers.

That would have to do for now.

* * *

If only Harry knew what sort of mayhem would come about when he next heard from any of the Winchesters, perhaps he might not have allowed himself to relax.


	20. Mortality Check

**A/N: In response to fanficfantasies, I just wanted to say I'm glad you liked it, and it was basically my cheater's way of skimming over the entirety of season 1, because I'm lazy, and it wasn't overly important.**

**Chapter 20 – Mortality Check:**

Harry had been having a perfectly relaxing day – a perfectly relaxing week even, which was still something he was having difficulty believing actually _happened_ – up until the moment his phone rang.

He was expecting a hunt. What he got was much worse – and much more unexpected.

What he got, was the frantic news that John and Dean Winchester were laid up in hospital – Dean in a coma of all things – after a freak car accident with demonic origins.

What had he told John about going after demons?!

But in the end that didn't matter, not really. Sam, the poor, emotional guy, needed his help, because apparently John had sent him his way to gather some things.

'Some things' turned out to be both exactly what he would expect from John and a complete surprise. But he showed none of that shock when he met up with Sam halfway between Jackson and Memphis, armed with all of the various things John had requested of him.

His first impression of Sam Winchester, in the flesh? Tall. Then Harry blinked, and all he could see was the terror in his expressive eyes. Clenching the bag tightly in one hand, he marched straight over and, unsure as to how exactly to comfort him, offered his other hand in a handshake – hey, they hadn't been formally introduced yet, so it wasn't that weird.

Sam's hand was trembling – not surprising, considering the situation – and Harry gripped it tight, staring up into shadowed eyes and trying to exude some sort of understanding. He wasn't sure if it worked or not, but Sam offered up a weak smile as Harry took his hand back.

The rest of the drive to Memphis had Harry deep in thought. He knew precisely what those damned ingredients were for – he'd been there after all, although he'd been more crossroads – grant my wish, I don't care who or how – while John was going for a specific summoning; Azazel, he assumed. Sam obviously didn't know – he'd be way more pissed off if he knew, going from what Harry remembered of the last and only time they had ever spoken.

He felt for the kid – and he really had no right calling him a kid, he was only a few years older than him, but in this moment he really was just a scared kid, about to lose the rest of his family – and he was going to at least try his best to convince _himself_ that John was doing the right thing; or rather, that John knew what effect what he was planning to do would have. If he was going to aid in Samuel Winchester losing a family member, he didn't want to feel any guiltier about it than necessary.

* * *

Harry hated hospitals. Always had, always would. Sam led him down the bright white corridors towards John's room, fingers twitching anxiously at his sides. The guy was freaking out – probably had been since before he even called. Harry could see that the stress was eating away at him.

When they reached John's room, Harry held out a hand to stop Sam from going in. When he glanced up – or rather, across and down, considering Harry's shorter stature – at Harry, he smiled softly, and gestured down the hall.

"Go get some coffee Sam, you're dead on your feet. I'll give him everything, we're right here. You'll know if I run off. I promise I'm not going to."

Sam was a bit disbelieving – understandable – but acquiesced anyway, slowing loping off down the corridors. Standing before the door Harry took a deep breath, clutching the paper bag tightly in his left hand, scrunching it up and partly wishing he could just throw it all away. But it had to be done.

"Alright then," he muttered, lifting his right hand to the door handle, "Let's do this."

Harry burst into the room rather more dramatically than he had intended, slamming the door shut behind him and making John jump in surprise – he had been dozing in bed, obviously waiting for Sam's return. It took him a moment to realise that he was breathing heavily as well – he must have been more frustrated than he realised. Taking another deep breath he threw the bag down on John's bedside table, and steeled himself to engage in a tricky line of conversation.

"What do you know about magic?" John scoffed, staring at Harry in disbelief, wondering why the hell he would bring up something like that when he had been furious at him just moments beforehand.

"It doesn't exist." John decided to humour Harry, since he _had_ brought him everything he'd asked for, even knowing exactly what they would be used for. It also seemed like he hadn't told Sam, which he was grateful for. "Witches get their powers from demons – it isn't magic."

Harry simply smiled indulgently at John and made himself comfortable in the chair next to the hospital bed.

"John, I'm going to tell you a story. You probably won't believe me, but I swear that it's true." Absently Harry twisted his family ring around his finger, a nervous trait he'd immediately picked up when he decided to wear them.

"Most people aren't aware of this, but there are small hidden communities of witches and wizards scattered across the world. These magic users believe in demons about as much as your regular non-religious civilian, and are born with their powers."

"That's not possible." John protested, scrutinising every nuance of Harry's expression as he spoke.

"It is. No-one quite knows how or why, but it happens. Anyway, just like any other group of people in the world, there are good people and evil people. Generally speaking there's roughly one Dark Lord or Lady every century, more often than not in England or surrounding European magical nations. In the 20th century, England suffered the wrath of two Dark Lords. The second is the one I'm going to concentrate on. His name – his assumed name anyway – was Lord Voldemort."

"Flight from death." John mused, and Harry laughed.

"Yeah, it was a pretty dumb name. But anyway, he was all sorts of bad. Then one day a prophecy was made detailing his demise. Seeing as he was absolutely terrified of dying, he set about trying to prevent it from coming to pass. You know how he did that? By trying to kill a baby."

"A _baby_."

"Exactly."

"Why are you telling me this?"

"All in good time John, all in good time. But back to the story. Voldemort was unable to kill the baby, although he quite successfully orphaned it. The baby's name was Harry Potter, and was heralded as a hero before he could even walk, because Voldemort supposedly disappeared that night. Fast-forward to his teenage years, and it was proven to the world that no, Voldemort _hadn't_ perished, and so it was once more that boy's responsibility to get rid of him. Horrible, right? Forcing a teenager to do a nation's dirty work?"

Harry could see John frowning – regardless of whether or not he believed the story at the moment, it was rather easy to become mad at the wizarding world at large when told stories from Harry's perspective.

"And they pressured him and pushed him around and labelled him. One day they loved him, the next they hated him; sometimes they claimed him insane, others attention-seeking. Eventually it all became rather too much for him, and he dropped out of school and locked himself away from the majority of them, away from their judgement and their ridicule. But even with all that extra time on his hands he couldn't figure out what he was supposed to do. It wasn't until, during a battle with some of Voldemort's followers, he had an encounter with a man possessed by a demon, that he really began thinking of what he could do. Demons weren't supposed to exist, after all. There was a whole other _other_ world out there. Surely he could use that to his advantage."

"So the demons got to England as well did they?"

Harry paused, twisting his ring back around the right way, and nodded in agreement.

"So he threw himself into research; first to save the possessed man, and then to see if he could help himself. Eventually he found something. A ritual to summon a crossroads demon. Now, Harry knew the price of demon deals – he was more than willing to sacrifice his soul if it would mean the destruction of Voldemort once and for all."

"Wait, are you trying to tell me that some kid was willing to _sell his soul_ because some idiotic nation believed it was his responsibility?"

"Well, not exactly. By that point in time Harry was just sick of everything, and Voldemort had done a pretty decent job at ruining his life. He just wanted it to be over. So he summoned the demon, and he made a deal, only the demon decided he was too interesting to kill. He made an alternate offer. Keep his soul, but relinquish his magic to the demon. It was a strange request, but Harry really and truly did not care what price he had to pay any longer, as long as it got the job done. So he accepted the demon's terms, and together they destroyed Voldemort."

"... _together._"

"In a manner of speaking, yes. The ordeal nearly killed Harry, but if he were to die before the deal were to be fully carried out, the demon would lose out, no? So he might have aided him the tiniest bit, in the end. Just enough to prevent his death."

"Is there a point to this story, or is this you trying to stall me?"

"I suppose you could say it was both. But I know there's no stopping you. I didn't tell Sam because I know he would have assumed the worst, but I heard what's happened, and I'm pretty sure I know what you're going to do. The story ends with Harry Potter ditching his last name, picking up a new one, and moving to the States. There are things that can't always be explained, John, those you-had-to-be-there moments, and you know that better than most. I just wanted to tell you that I don't blame you, and I decided I should probably come clean to at least one person about what sort of things I've done in my life."

Harry unravelled the scarf from around his neck and pulled down the collar of his shirt, leaning forward slightly so that John could see the mark Crowley left on him.

"If it had been a regular deal, I would have gotten ten years, and those ten years would be up pretty soon really. Instead, I lost what made me me, and I had to re-find myself. There will be no easy out for you – the Underworld hates you Winchesters after all. But they will understand eventually."

"You're insane, you know that?" John said eventually, slightly paler than he had been in the beginning as he tried to process everything he had just been told. Hunter or no hunter that was a lot to take in. "And what, you coming clean to a dead man walking? What kind of conscience do you have anyway kid?"

"People generally reserve that statement for Ash, but I suppose I can see where you're coming from." Harry climbed to his feet and wound his scarf around his neck once more. "Besides John, right now it's the dead man who needs to hear the story most. It doesn't matter whether or not it weighs on my conscience." He then held his hand out to John. "Come on then, you've got stuff that needs doing, no? I'll stand watch."

John stared at Harry for a minute, and Harry allowed him to, judging to see if he believed he could still trust the young man before him. He eventually decided it didn't really matter, since he was about to throw his life away anyway.

"Ok then kid, have it your way."

Harry helped John climb out of the hospital bed, respectfully not saying anything about the standard-issue hospital-wear he'd been forced into. He picked the bag up before John had a chance to, not necessarily trusting him to actually have the strength not to drop it or let the wrong person see it. No-one was going to be able to guess what was really in there, but there were enough items prohibited in hospitals to be wary of any unmarked bag being carried by a shifty patient.

After guiding John down to a room the elder man deemed appropriate, Harry left him there and stood guard outside the door, his back to the metal. He didn't particularly fancy bearing witness to what was going to happen in there, good or bad. It was going to be ugly. John might not have realised it himself, but he had some serious anger issues.

Time passed; it could have been seconds, minutes, or hours. Harry highly doubted it was hours; his feet weren't asleep yet. Eventually John emerged, looking rather worse for wear, possessively clutching the bag to himself. It must have had something else in it now, for Harry could see no use in it otherwise.

"How'd it go?" Harry pressed, eyeing him in distaste, wondering not for the last time why it was always him stuck between a rock and a hard place.

"Take me upstairs." The demand caught Harry off-guard, and as he reached out automatically to grab John's shoulders he realised he was shaking. Well, they were both shaking. John from exertion, and Harry, well, he was nervous. Had he pretty much just aided John in taking his own life? Yeah, he probably had. True, if Harry had refused John probably would just have called someone else, but Harry had said yes.

He could understand though. An older, angry man for a young man. A teenager for a nation. Sacrifices, right? There was always a choice, a chance things would go their way without their intervention, but Harry and John were men of action – if they could do something, they would. Well, Harry not so much anymore, but there was only so much of a person's personality that they can suppress at once.

Together they hobbled and walked back through the corridors, passing a frantic Sam who quickly switched directions to herd them towards Dean's room. It was simply a whirlwind of bodies and colours and sounds. The closer they got to Dean's room the worse it got. Everything was in motion, and Harry momentarily wondered if he was going to pass out, before he realised that everything really _was_ in motion. Doctors and nurses were everywhere; there was Sam, ushering them on; John, clutching Harry's arm so tightly it was sure to leave a bruise; and in the midst of it all, a hospital bed with a partially conscious Dean Winchester.

To anyone else, it would have been a miracle. To _Sam_, it was a miracle. For now anyway. There was no good way to brush off a person's father collapsing, dead, within minutes of their brother getting better. Not to a hunter anyway.

"He actually did it."

Harry twitched as John's breath brushed the exposed skin of his neck, whispering in wonder.

"What do you mean?"

"You think Azazel actually _wanted_ to save Dean. Hell no. Killing me? No problem. But convincing him to let me see it happen before he took me? He drives a hard bargain."

"John?"

"Kid, I have minutes, at best. He probably won't believe it, coming from you, but I want you to tell Dean – later, after everything's done and he's released from the hospital – that I'm proud of him, and that I... I never should have blamed him for any of those things I blamed him for as a kid. He was a good kid. Just following orders. I was trying to save them, and I think I may have ruined them. But at least they'll have each other. I know who they can live without. Me. But without each other? They're nothing. Not anymore."

Using strength Harry hadn't realised he still possessed, John turned and began shuffling back towards his own room, dragging Harry in tow. Sam glanced back in confusion at them, but Harry could only shrug helplessly.

"John you prat, don't you want to say anything to Sam? He's right there!"

"No. I've said my piece to him. If I start again I'll probably mess it all up. And I don't want him to see it happen. The kid's got enough trauma as it is." He was getting weaker and weaker as they walked, and Harry was just about carrying him. They were around the corner from Dean's room though, and so John simply allowed himself to collapse on the ground with Harry hovering nervously over him. A glint of silver poked out of the top of the bag before it disappeared, accompanied by the tiniest whiff of sulphur.

"John..."

"Don't. You did good kid. Maybe I'll see you down in the pits one day and we can bash in a few demon skulls. Sound good?"

"I thought you weren't the sentimental type." Harry murmured, blinking back tears he knew would be scoffed at.

"I'm not, but Hell's going to get pretty lonely. Perhaps I wouldn't mind if you came to visit. Not too son though. I'll be counting." John was wheezing now, and Harry could only stare helplessly down at him as his systems began shutting down, one by one. His expression said it all. The pain must have been immense – the demon having one last laugh – but John refused to make a sound. At the exact moment John breathed his last breath Harry slammed his hand down on the nearest alarm before crouching down beside him.

"If you see Voldemort down there, give him hell for me," Harry whispered, rubbing at his eyes. It wasn't fair that the good people had to make all the sacrifices. The Winchesters were good people.

Sam didn't arrive with the flurry of nurses, and for that Harry was grateful. He wasn't sure he was up to their scrutiny and their disappointment just yet. When they took John away, Harry holed himself up in John's now empty hospital room and fell asleep in the chair next to the bed, hiding away from the world.

Life was never fair.

* * *

**A/N: Well, as you can I'm not dead. I do however have highly diminished time and internet access. I'll get to you when I can, but it will be harder without all the free time I'm used to having. Thanks for understanding.**


	21. Unwanted Company

**A/N: Hey everyone. I had a bit of a mind-melt over the last week and a bit, and you'll probably notice some rather rambly bits in this chapter, BUT it somehow stumbled its way up to 4000 words, so I'm sure you lot won't mind too terribly. I'll warn you now in advance though, I only managed to bring the All Hell Breaks Loose episodes with me, due to technical difficulties blah blah. But that's the only in-depth reference material I have with me, so you'll have to bear with me here.**

**Chapter 21 – Unwanted Company: **

The hospital staff had been kind enough not to kick him out of the hospital until he awoke on his own, something that Harry was grateful for. In his current state he probably would have lashed out at anyone who tried to force him awake. It also allowed him a chance to calm down.

If the slightly sticky tracks down his face were anything to go by, Harry had been crying in his sleep. Were he to be perfectly honest, he barely knew John, and yet it felt as though he had cried more for him than he had for Sirius. He'd wanted to cry for Sirius though – he'd been in a state of shock; it had been unexpected. He'd known exactly what was going to happen to John.

It was times like this he really wished he still had his magic. If he'd had his magic he could have used it to heal Dean himself – although he'd never been very proficient at healing magic, he would have tried and tried until he was completely out of energy – and John wouldn't have had to make that deal. But that was a very big what if, spinning all the way back to the tail-end of last century when he first met Crowley, and definitely not the best thing to dwell on for the time being.

Dean had sort of been discharged by the time Harry left the hospital – the doctors had wanted him to stay, he'd wanted to leave, they had made a scene of sorts; probably been banned from the hospital while they were at it. By the sounds of it it was very typical Winchester behaviour, but it only made Harry depressed.

Of course, the fact that they were waiting to gang up on him when he left the hospital didn't really help his mood. The look in Dean's eyes said it all really. Sam must have told him his version of what went down, and he'd then pieced together what Sam had either missed or not wanted to acknowledge, and come to the correct conclusion that Harry had been in on it. It was perhaps an unfair judgement, but it was – or at least it would have been under better circumstances – partially a compliment really, that Dean thought that Harry was intelligent enough to know what was going on and that John apparently trusted him enough to let him in on it over anyone else.

"You okay man?" Sam asked him, forever the empathetic one – and still blissfully unaware of what had really happened. "The doctors wouldn't let us go in to see you, so we," he glanced over at Dean's disgruntled expression and back-tracked a little, 'well, _I_, was a bit worried. I don't think Dean really understands that this must be rough for you too."

And wasn't that just a solid punch to the gut?

Harry cringed slightly as Sam continued to talk. He wanted to ask if he could just leave now, regardless of how rude that may seem, but what came out instead was, "Are you going to have any sort of funeral for him?"

Dean bristled with anger, drawing himself up to his full – taller than Harry – height and glaring at the once-wizard.

"You have absolutely no right to ask that. In fact, I think you should leave."

Sam smacked him over the back of the head with a disappointed cry of "_Dean!_", even as Harry silently agreed with him. He tried to apologise with his eyes but, well, Dean wasn't really the subtle type. Harry doubted he noticed.

They lapsed into a charged silence; Dean glaring, Sam standing awkwardly on the sidelines, and Harry shuffling his feet.

Pulling himself together, Harry stilled his feet and met Dean's glare head-on.

"Sam, do you think I could talk to your brother alone for a bit?"

Dean raised an eyebrow at him in question, probably wondering if Harry _wanted_ the stuffing beat out of him. Sam was indecisive – with good reason; it was hardly a friendly atmosphere even with him there to moderate. It wouldn't do for him to be within ear-shot – so really anywhere in the same 500m, if they started yelling – when they had their conversation, because it was going to be harsh, biting, accusatory, and possibly violent.

"Sam?"

Conflicted, Sam turned to his brother.

"Yeah Sammy, can you give us a minute?" Dean's tone was more biting than he probably intended, for Sam frowned deeply, sending them both calculating looks before acquiescing to their request and walking away.

"You know what my dad did," Dean shot at him as soon as Sam was out of ear-shot. Knowing that there was no point in denying it, Harry simply nodded, lips pressed into a thin line somewhat reminiscent of an annoyed Minerva McGonagall. "Why the hell didn't you stop him?!"

Harry folded his arms defensively across his chest, twisting the ring around his index finger with his thumb.

"Dean. Think about it for a moment. You were dying. Seriously, absolutely, irrevocably dying. Believe it or not, your father does love you. He couldn't bear to see you die when there was a chance he could prevent it. It was hardly my place to tell him what he could and couldn't do with his own life."

"Fuck you. You're trying to say it's my fault dad's dead?" Dean spat angrily, hands fisted at his sides, just waiting for the right opportunity to punch Harry in the face, no doubt.

Sighing heavily Harry reached up and rubbed at his temple. He got the distinct feeling he was going to have a migraine by the end of this discussion.

"Shut up. Don't twist my words. That's not what I meant and you know it. If you want to be angry at someone, go ahead and be angry at me," Harry offered, adding as a bitter afterthought, "that's all I'm really here for, after all."

"Good. Perfect then."

And Harry was flung to the ground from a strong punch to the jaw.

It was only Jo's rigorous training that saved him from a fracture, but even so his reaction time was too slow to prevent what was going to be an impressive bruise, likely accompanied by some swelling.

Shaking his head – slowly, carefully – Harry climbed back to his feet, settling his glasses back in their proper place.

"You going to do that again or are you finished?" Harry asked in an exhausted monotone, readying his stance for another blow. For a moment it looked as though Dean would indeed hit him again, but his scowl deepened and he dropped his fists back to his sides.

"The fuck's wrong with you man? Just standing there and letting me hit you. Get mad! Fight back! Do _something!_"

Harry wiped away the small trickle of blood flowing from the corner of his mouth and raised an eyebrow at Dean, mimicking the man's earlier action.

"What do you _want_ me to do? I deserve whatever you throw at me. John told me to pass on a message, but I figure it can wait until you've pounded out your anger. Whatever you do to me, I've suffered through worse in the past."

That seemed to ignite some sort of light-bulb in Dean's mind.

"What, even if I killed you?" It was curiosity; Harry couldn't sense any actual killing-intent behind the question.

"You of all people Dean should know that there are worse things than death. In a life like this, death is the only way out – it's the saving grace, not the eternal punishment. So yes, Dean, I've suffered things much worse than death. And just so you know, you aren't the only person here who had a family member die saving them. Sometimes, you just have to get over it and be glad for what you still have."

Harry was past done talking to Dean; it was too taxing just then – it would possibly always be too taxing, dealing with such an abrasive personality, always quick to anger. People like that always rubbed him the wrong way; he didn't have the patience for them anymore. Turning on his heel he started walking away, intent on just finding his car and driving all the way home, regardless of what his neighbours would think if they saw him arrive back looking so beat up. He'd apologise to Sam some other time for being a dick and running out on them.

That was the plan anyway. He only managed a few steps before Dean pulled himself together enough to call after him.

"What did he say to you?"

Harry paused mid-step, half-turning back towards Dean.

"John said that he loves you, both of you, even if it never seemed like it. That he knew the two of you together would be able to cope better without him than Sam would have coped without you. And he essentially said he was sorry for raising you the way he did and ruining any chance of normalcy you might have had; he's worried he may have ruined you. But he was only doing what he thought best at the time. I understand that he probably didn't have much of a choice – believe it or not, he's actually a very emotionally driven person, not unlike Sam. He knew perfectly well what he was doing, and I guess he could only hope you two would be able to make things work."

When he finished his little speech Harry was a bit teary-eyed himself, and immediately turned away from Dean, only to come face to face – or rather, face to chest – with Sam, who had headed back over when he saw Harry moving to leave, assuming that their conversation was over and done with. He looked down, because he couldn't bring himself to look up, and saw Sam was shaking again.

"So he really did make a deal with Azazel then," Sam said weakly, voice heavy with emotion.

Harry choked out an affirmative and hung his head further, cursing himself as the tears started again. It was ridiculous, how much this one death was affecting him. He'd spoken with the man all of four times, hardly long enough to form a proper attachment, yet here he was, sobbing his heart out.

Winchesters leave impressions on people. And Harry was oh so susceptible.

An arm wrapped around his shoulders and he was pulled into Sam's chest. He struggled momentarily, but it was too much effort. Ceasing his struggles he collapsed forward, exhausted, and let himself cry. He pretended he couldn't feel Sam's tears falling on his head, and Dean maintained a respectful silence somewhere off to the side. Harry couldn't imagine him crying, but if he was, he wouldn't want any witnesses to it.

All in all it was just too much emotion at once. Harry had allowed himself to become so closed off from people that he rarely ever felt strong emotions, and certainly not in such quantities.

When the tears finally stopped he snaked an arm up and rubbed his eyes, mumbling a soft apology into Sam's shirt and squeezing his arm in thanks. He hadn't had a shoulder to cry on for a long time – in fact, he wasn't sure if he'd ever had one at all. Sam ruffled his hair – and it said something about how exhausted Harry was that he didn't even put up a token protest – before releasing him, taking a step back and subtly rubbing tear tracks off of his own face.

Dean cleared his throat and went to talk, but nothing came out. He cleared his throat again, coughed angrily, and stormed off. Harry bit his lip, holding back another sigh, and rolled his eyes, turning his back on Dean's retreating form.

Sam didn't smile at him, but he didn't frown either. It was something.

"We're going to have a hunter's funeral for him, in a few days. Do you want me to text you the details?"

Harry hesitated to answer. The idea of seeing Dean again so soon was incredibly off-putting, but at the same time he felt like he owed John enough to attend his 'funeral', whatever that may be.

It was a good thing Sam was patient; Harry was taking forever to make up his mind.

"Yes," he said eventually, meeting Sam's gaze. "Yes, I'll go. See you there."

Sam nodded slowly, obviously still concerned, and watched as Harry raced off to find his car.

* * *

Harry paid more attention than he normally did, trying to find somewhere to stay. He didn't want to end up at the same motel as the Winchesters, because that would be horrendously awkward. It would be for the best if he didn't run into either of them before the funeral – it would give _all_ of them a chance to calm down, so that Dean hopefully wouldn't feel the need to punch him again. He was going to feel strange enough wandering around with a massive bruise on his chin.

In fact, Harry was so worried about it that he splashed out on a hotel and holed himself up in his room, not even leaving for food – he took full advantage of the long hours of room service. Apparently he  
was an 'eat your feelings' sort of person this month.

Sam, true to his word, texted him the day after, giving him a date, time, and address. The funeral was going to be in two days.

It almost seemed too soon. Although he was completely cried out, he was still emotionally unstable. When the _Do Not Disturb_ sign fell off his door and the cleaner came into his room he'd snapped at her, reducing her to tears, before apologising profusely and offering her some chocolate from his always present stash. Needless to say she'd left incredibly confused, but at least she hadn't complained about him to management. It was one of the most embarrassing moments of his entire life. He was used to having some insane sort of iron control on his emotions, for the most part – minus heartfelt anger at whatever may have been happening at Hogwarts when he'd been back home. He'd never really been so out of sorts before. In its own way it was rather terrifying.

He just felt so _wrong_ here. Nothing was how it should be. And if Dean punched him again, he'd deserve it.

Not that he wanted a grave-side brawl, even if Sam was the only one around to witness it. _Especially_ if Sam was the only one around to witness it.

That thought made Harry groan out loud, rolling onto his stomach and burying his head under one of the pillows.

Sam Winchester was too kind a soul – his occupation aside – for Harry to get himself involved with. It almost seemed as though he would taint him, weigh him down with the failures and darkness of his own life. He needed to get away from them as soon as possible and never turn back.

Unfortunately, he knew that would never happen. Now Harry had an invested interest in the Winchesters. Out of all the hunters he had ever met, he wanted _them_ to succeed the most, for _them_ to survive above all else. Perhaps it was the way he could see bits of himself in each of them. Battle-weary, well, that was a given really, considering the way they'd been raised. In Dean there was a fierce protectiveness, not unlike what Harry used to show for his friends, always trying to protect them over himself when they got themselves into another dangerous situation. Sam possessed the look of someone who had been thrown headfirst into the harsh reality of the world; while Harry's world had always been harsh, there had of course been a breaking point where he just thought 'really? This is how things are going to be?'

He curled the pillow further around his head.

There would have been so many positives if this whole mess had never happened in the first place. The most obvious one? John wouldn't have died. Sure, it would have happened eventually, whether from a hunt, a disease, or god forbid from old age, but it wouldn't have happened _now_. More importantly, it wouldn't have involved _Harry_. Not being associated with their father's death would have meant that Harry's first meeting with Dean in-person wouldn't have involved him being punched in the face. That would also have been nice to avoid, although he did ask for it. Then there was Sam. Bloody Sam. Mister tall and sorrowful. Harry's whole being ached when he was around the guy, and he couldn't for the life of him figure out why.

So then, he decided, sitting up suddenly and listening absently as the pillow was sent tumbling to the floor. He would go to the funeral, say a quick farewell, then high-tail it out of Memphis.

It sounded like a good plan. In theory.

* * *

All too soon it was funeral day, and Harry was on the verge of attempting a rather Oliver Woods style stunt and trying to drown himself in the shower. But that was childish, and Harry was above such things now... Mostly. Still, it would be a very apt reason for missing the funeral: "Hey, sorry I couldn't make it, I was in hospital recovering from a partial drowning."

He was still all over the place, but he was trying to be resolute about his plan of action.

Yesterday he'd gone digging through a tiny magical pouch of family heirlooms and such that he'd scavenged from his vaults and kept on his person at all times, trying to find some token to offer. Sitting in the room, far away from his hectic shower, was a simple badge. Harry didn't know what it was for, but it had his family crest on it – and didn't everything? – and he wanted, as stupid as it might sound, to acknowledge that, in some crazy way, John had been important to the last Potter.

If his suspicions were correct, it was only going to get burned, but there was hardly anything else he was going to use it for. And maybe it would somehow find its way to John down in Hell, and he could use it to find Death Eaters.

Harry let out a strangled laugh, spluttering as he practically inhaled some of the water that sprayed down on him.

His phone beeped loudly at him from the bed, and Harry grimaced, reluctantly turning off the shower and stepping out of the awkward cubicle, wrapping a towel around his waist as he went. That was his 'get the fuck out of the shower or you're going to end up late' alarm. He'd set it specially, since he was in such an avoidant mood.

He dressed quickly, throwing on one of his tidier pairs of jeans and a button-up shirt in a presentable-casual sort of fashion, knowing better than to rock up in a suit – not that he owned one. His hair received some rough treatment from the towel, leaving it somewhat damp but not dripping, and sitting just a tiny bit flatter than usual as the remaining moisture weighed it down. The things he'd brought with him had already been chucked back in his car, and all he had left to do was check out of the hotel before he could leave.

He didn't ever plan on coming back.

The badge was slipped into his pocket along with his wallet, and then he was gone.

* * *

Despite his almost desperate desire to get lost, Harry actually arrived before the Winchesters. He wasn't a tardy person by nature, but he wouldn't have minded so much if he'd been late to this. It was easy to see that they had been there before, making preparations, because there was a large funeral pyre waiting for them. Burn the body. It was a hunter thing. Harry didn't find that his own funeral preferences warranted thinking about.

"At least it isn't raining," he muttered to himself as he climbed out of his car, taking measured steps towards the wooden construct. In a morbid way it could almost be considered beautiful, he supposed, though he'd never been the sort to find beauty in construction.

He wasn't alone for long. Right on time – surprisingly – the Winchesters pulled up in a rental car – as the story went, Dean's car was completely totalled in the crash. Of course, Dean didn't look all that pleased to see him, but Harry had been expecting that. He wasn't all that pleased to see Dean either. Sam, on the other hand, looked almost relieved to see him. Harry wasn't in the right frame of mind to wonder why that might have been.

They quickly set to work completing the pyre, dousing everything in gasoline as they went. Once they were done Dean stood next to it, impatiently flicking a lighter on and off, while Sam sent a questioning look at Harry. Realising it was time, Harry dug around in his pocket for the badge, simply holding it in his palm for a while, before walking over and placing it on John's folded hands. It was an odd experience for Harry; John was the first peaceful-looking dead body he had ever seen. Wizarding deaths were brutal in war-time. Peaceful deaths were a myth.

Stepping back he nodded at Sam, which Dean took as his cue to set the pyre alight. Harry watched in twisted fascination as the gold slowly heated, began to bubble, and then melted as the flames grew higher and stronger. Briefly his thoughts were drawn to Seamus, a boy with a certain proclivity for fire and explosions, as he watched the flames. Silly really, to think on a classmate of years past while at the funeral of someone else. But Harry wasn't good with death, not like everyone thought he was. He... processed things differently, in regards to that particular fact of life. As a coping mechanism, he supposed, he distanced himself from death. His own death truly meant nothing to him – it would be a relief even – but other people didn't deserve to die.

Voldemort came to mind and he quickly altered his thought.

_Most_ people didn't deserve to die.

He didn't even realise it was over until Sam nudged him rather frantically – it mustn't have been the first time; Harry hadn't noticed he was so lost in thought, since he was usually very physically aware.

"You okay?" came the inevitable question. And Harry's answer actually surprised himself.

"Yeah."

And in a way, he was. The whole issue would never be okay, but _he_ was. It was as though the fire had burned away all of his anxiety and grief and fear and whatever the hell else had been going on inside his head. Perhaps there were positives to hunter funerals after all. Maybe everyone should be heralded to the next life via flame.

"What did you give him?" Sam hedged, trying for a conversation of sorts before they went their separate ways.

Harry smiled softly with tired eyes.

"A thank you."

And in a way, it was.

Half-turning to face the hulking figure of Sam Winchester Harry simply stared for a moment. The stare meant everything and yet nothing, and before Sam had a chance to become uncomfortable Harry had blinked and decided to continue on a vein of thought aloud.

"If you ever need someone to talk to, you know, that isn't as..." Harry struggled to find a nicer way of saying what he meant, but failed, "irritable and prone to anger and quick judgements, as Dean, then I'm just a phone call away. If you want. Uh..." As he continued on Harry's courage fled and he stammered and flushed slightly in embarrassment. It was a silly notion, Sam was hardly going to-

"Thanks man. It might be nice to be able to talk about this shit to someone younger than Bobby, you know?"

"No problem." And Harry was very proud to note that he managed not to sound too eager, although he didn't know why he was even feeling eager in the first place, which would have made the whole thing incredibly awkward. Well, more awkward than it already was.

"See you around."

And just like that, the Winchesters were gone.

Harry almost felt like saying 'Good riddance', but really now, that was just tempting Fate, and he was never sure which way the scales would fall.


End file.
